


Red

by stress



Category: Newsies
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stress/pseuds/stress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Gothic Horror set in 1900 Brooklyn. A murderous figure known only as the Beast stalks New York City's streets - but even he is no match for a rarer and more formidable creature: a vengeful and reckless Spot Conlon in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : The character of Spot Conlon in this story is the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

_The Working Boys' Home in Brooklyn, 1891._

Spot Conlon woke up like he did every morning: as slowly as possible, taking the time and the care to stretch out in his small bunk without waking up Butchy above him. His eyes were closed as he cocked his ear, listening. Pleased by what he didn't hear—namely, the sounds of countless other boys like him, getting ready for a morning hawking the headlines—and what he did hear—lots and lots of snuffles and snores—Spot opened his eyes and smirked to himself in that self-satisfied way he always did.

He only allowed himself that one moment of satisfaction before he was leaning over and rifling around in the battered wooden box he kept stowed under his bunk; too young, too new to the house to be trusted with a key to his very own locker, the underside of his bunk was as much privacy as he was allowed. Spot took a quick inventory as his thin fingers grabbed something new, searching for those things he would need.

His worn shirt and faded trousers?

Check.

A trusty hat to hide his head of unwashed hair?

Got it. With his free hand he scratched his head, feeling the slick strands slide through his fingers. He'd have to remember to take a turn in one of the tubs in the basement after he finished selling off the evening edition of the paper.

His fingers groped blindly, past his shooters, past a couple of dud coppers and even a bit of rolled-up string. Where was it? His heart sped up a little faster, visions of some of the boys with stickier fingers looting around in his box, in his belongings, when suddenly his pinky brushed up against the roughly-hewn piece of wood and he exhaled in relief.

His slingshot?

Ah. Right where he left it.

Then, slipping out of his bunk, Spot pulled on his trousers first, buttoned up his shirt quickly next and finally jammed his hat on his head, doing what he could to cover up his greasy dirty blond hair. He reached back under the bunk and grabbed a couple of his shooters. The slingshot he stuck in its place of honor in his back pocket.

There, he decided, all set. And without waking up any of his bunkmates, still slumbering and snoring around him, he snuck out of the dormitory into the third floor hallway, hiking up his over-sized trousers as he went.

All of his clothes, from the shirt to the trousers and the yellow-stained union suit he wore underneath, they were all donations given to the Working Boys' Home. He was damn grateful to have them, too; if they would've fit properly, that would've been quite the luxury. And Spot Conlon wasn't the sort of boy who cared a lick about something so silly as a pair of too-large trousers when there were plenty of boys who went without. All it took was a hitch and he wouldn't trip. He couldn't complain and wouldn't at any rate.

In the year since he'd come to lodge at 61 Poplar Street he had perfected his morning routine. He had no choice. First awake every morning, first out of the lodging house, first one down at the distribution center... that was how it had to be if Spot wanted to make sure he got to buy any papes of his own to sell. He was eight years old, a scrawny underfed kid who was destined for the back of the line unless he was already standing defiantly, stubbornly at the head of it.

The third floor was empty like it usually was that early in the morning. The second floor hallways, too. He made it down both of them easily, ever alert and before long all that was left for him to do was hurry past the main offices on the first floor, heading straight for the back entrance without being caught and—

"Good morning, Liam."

He stopped dead in his tracks. Did the woman ever sleep?

Spot slowly turned around because he knew that was something else he didn't really have a choice about. And there she was: Mrs. Lucy Kirby, tiny in stature but big enough to stare the young boy down without her prim smile wavering once. The woman was like a ghost, Spot would swear it, if ghosts were slender, grey-haired ladies in their late fifties. He didn't know how Mrs. Kirby knew where to be, whether breaking up a midnight game of dice or catching one sneaky newsboy trying to head out early, but she was always there.

Technically she was the matron of the Home, tending to the laundry and the lessons, the donations, the repairs and the meals, but seeing as how the superintendent just bandied about with the title while hardly ever setting foot inside the building, Mrs. Kirby was more than the matron—she was the law.

He also knew better than to scowl, but that didn't mean he returned her smile either. "It's Spot now, Mrs. Kirby."

"And my ledgers have you down as Liam. Up again early, I see."

It wasn't exactly a rule but it was common knowledge that Mrs. Kirby preferred all the boys woken up at once so they could leave the lodging house together. She certainly didn't approve of one of them wandering around on his own.

Spot tried to keep his face neutral, hiding any hint of his lie or his intent. "Couldn't sleep." It was the same thing he told her every time she caught him which, while not often, was more often than Spot liked. Used to years plodding past his drunken father, he couldn't get used to tiptoeing past Mrs. Kirby's remarkable hearing.

Luckily for him, the matron was in a good mood that morning. "You know what helps me when I can't sleep?" There was a knowing twinkle in her light blue eyes. "A bit of fresh air always does the trick."

And then she winked and disappeared, probably off to wake up the rest of the dormitories. Spot waited until he didn't see her anymore, tipped his hat in the direction the matron had gone, and continued straight towards the back exit, down the stairs and then out the door. The sun was coming up just as he made onto Buckbees Alley, right on schedule.

Even before he came to live in the Working Boys' Home on Poplar Street—the Newsboys' Lodging House... whatever you wanted to call it—Spot was a Brooklyn boy. He was born and raised in a tenement on the edge of the Williamsburg neighborhood, not so far from the lodging house set up right in the heart of Brooklyn Heights. When his mother died and his father finally ran him out, he only had to move a couple of blocks over.

Spot knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand. Two blocks north of where he stood was the Brooklyn Bridge, but he had no reason to venture into Manhattan and rarely went that way. Once he turned out of Buckbees and onto Poplar, he was bounded in by Henry and Hicks Street, with Hicks on his right hand side—and the exact direction he set off for.

The distribution center where Spot and most of the other newsboys bought their copies of the sensational New York World wasn't too far from the lodging house, especially for boys who walked holes through their soles every day. He knew the shortcuts, the alleys to cut down, the streets to avoid. At the corner of Hicks and Orange stood the Sisters from St. Vincent's Home for Boys stood, trying to lure converts away from the Plymouth Church. They were good for a quick hymn and a not-too-stale roll if you crossed yourself and promised you were a good Catholic boy. Spot usually got his breakfast there every morning.

He was just taking a shortcut down Clark, nearly there and certain to be first in line again when he stopped and polished off the rest of his morning roll. He wished he had something, anything to wash it down, made do with what little spit he had and wiped the crumbs away with the back of his hand.

That's when he heard the scream.

It came from in front of him. Knowing the city as he did, Spot was only too aware that there was a small alley, a cut-through that led to the other side of the road up ahead. It was a narrow way, usually stuffed with piles of garbage and crates and other odds and ends the trash men never collected. It was also damn dark—and Spot new only too well what could happen in a dark, dank alley this early on a Brooklyn morning.

It was a girl's scream, too.

Something was stirring inside of Spot. He knew it was a lesson well taught at the Working Boys' Home—though not in lessons... Mrs. Kirby hadn't succeeded in dragging Spot Conlon to evening lessons just yet—that, if you wanted to survive the streets, you kept your head down and your nose clean unless there was something you could do about it. If you were prepared to risk the Refuge, then you got itchy fingers. If you were sure you were faster than some mook with a knife, then you started a fight before you knew if the other guy was armed or not. And if you were sure you could get out of that alley again, then you hitched up your trousers and dove headfirst into the darkened side street.

And the thing was this: eight-year-old Spot Conlon wasn't sure. But, back when he was too young or too stupid to do anything himself, there were plenty of nights he heard his mother's screams and wished someone would help her. His mother may have been dead for over a year now, but Spot hadn't forgotten the sound of her scream. It was ringing in his ears just then as he yanked his slingshot out of his pocket with one hand, grabbed a handful of shooters with the other, and ran straight toward the terrifying sound.

The morning sun was still rising, but it wasn't so dark in that alley that Spot couldn't see what was happening. There was a man, a drunkard by the look of him, who had stayed out too late, probably kicked out when the last tavern closed and he hadn't walked it off yet. There was a young girl, hardly big enough to come up to the man's bloated belly. He kept his hand tight around her arm, dragging the girl closer to him.

As Spot watched, she swung up her free arm with a bit of spunk, trying to hit him with a brown basket she clutched in her hand. The man laughed loudly and Spot could've sworn he smelt the liquor on his breath from there. Despite his stumble, he dodged her hit—or didn't feel it at all—and gave the girl's arm another rough pull.

And then she screamed again.

Spot didn't speak. He didn't think. He just acted.

The first shot was wild. Spot had been aiming for the man's eye but he missed and nicked him right on the ear.

The second shot was closer: it hit the hollow of the drunkard's cheek. With a snarl of rage that almost seemed inhuman, the man's hands flew up to hit the spot that was hit and, in that instant, he let go of the hold he had on the poor girl.

Spot was already running in the instant he let fly the second shooter. Tucking his chin into his chest, protecting himself, he barreled right into the drunkard. After a long evening on the bottle, the man's balance was shot and Spot's hit sent him sprawling to his back before he even realized that the boy had moved.

Though free from the drunkard's clutches, the girl stood there frozen. It was almost like she had no idea what had happened—that, or what she was supposed to do now. Spot knew at once that couldn't leave her there. She was a sitting duck for when that bastard got back to his feet.

"Come on," he yelled, reaching out and grabbing the girl's hand. He tossed the rest of the shooters he held to the dirt in order to get a better grip, then gave a great big tug on her arm and started to run.

Spot didn't pay attention to where exactly he was going, so desperate was he to get away from that alley. There was no guarantee his hit would keep the drunk down long enough for them to escape but he damn well hoped so. His burned, the girl whose hand he clasped tightly in his, she didn't run anywhere near as fast as Spot which only made him try to move faster to compensate. She dragged on behind him but she didn't fight and she didn't resist, recognizing her hero in a boy just her side.

He lost track of how many blocks they thundered down, dodging an apple vendor setting up his cart, whistling past an iceman making his deliveries. Up ahead was a small strait, more a nook really, just large enough for two small kids to tuck inside and hide while making sure no trouble was following them.

Spot ushered the girl inside first, following her inside so that he was closer to the street. Their backs were to the brick wall and they could touch the other side of the wall if they reached out their arms. It was the perfect hiding spot. And it was there that they waited together to see if the drunk would appear. It was only after a few very tense minutes that Spot realized they were probably safe.

He also realized after those few tense minutes that he was still holding as tightly to her hand as a vise. It was tiny and smooth, the pale skin making his look grubby and ink-stained in comparison. She was like a porcelain doll, the ones he used to see in the fancy shops when his mother was still alive and they could afford to look at pretty things. And he was holding onto her with such force it was as if his grip could shatter her very fingers.

The idea spooked him and Spot hurriedly let go. He took another step away from her, turning so that his was back was against the other side. This way, the two of them could come face to face for the first time and they did—Spot stood there taking her in, appraising her as they both got their breath back.

She was a young girl, fresh-faced, sweet-looking. Her cheeks were pale, her lips red as a spring apple and her eyes a warm brown color that seemed to twinkle as she unabashedly met his stare. She wore her wavy blonde hair loose, flowing past her shoulders, tangled and knotted from her attack and the run. A ribbon, as red as blood, redder than her lips even, was tied underneath her hair, a bow on top, the twin ends disappearing in her golden locks.

Spot was staring, they both knew he was staring, and he had the strange, overwhelming urge to take her hand again. But he didn't.

Still, he had to say something.

"Where'd ya get such a ribbon?" It was a stupid question, an observation, just something to say. He smirked and, feeling embarrassed at how sweaty his palms were now, he said shortly, "That's not a color ya see round here often," while rubbing those same sweaty palms against his trousers.

"My father's a tailor," she told him, her voice breathy and not as high as he expected; she was still panting slightly, not used to running the way Spot was. "I can have any color I want."

Spot quirked an eyebrow. The meaning was implicit—in Spot's opinion, red was a whore's color, and she was obviously no whore. "And ya chose red?" he asked.

"Yes." She beamed innocently. "It's my favorite."

If she understood what he meant, she played it off rather well. Then again, Spot decided, she didn't seem like the type of girl who knew anything about life on the dirty New York streets. What would she have done if him and his trusty slingshot hadn't come along?

And then he surprised himself by telling her a lie: "Mine, too." Spot preferred blue, too much red reminded him of shed blood and his damn father's heavy hand, but if she liked it, well, maybe he could like it, too.

Her laugh was one of delight; it erased the last of her worries, the last of the panic that lingered from when that drunk grabbed at her. Even though she was no longer frightened, her warm brown eyes remained wide, an effect that made her look more vulnerable than before.

For some reason that angered Spot. It made him angry that this girl couldn't walk through the streets of Brooklyn—his Brooklyn!—without someone jumping out at her. It made him angry that he wasn't big enough to help or a better shot. Hell, it made him furious that this girl was out and about in the morning when, by any right, only newsies and vendors should be getting ready to wake up the city with their cries for sales. What had she been doing in that alley in the first place?

Gruffer than he should've, Spot asked her that very same question.

His question startled her and her laugh died on her lips. In that moment, her fear seemed to return. Her fear and her worry. "Papa, he—"

"Your father sent ya that way?"

"Oh, no! No, no, no... Papa, he would be so sad to know I made the mistake of going down that alley. He always tells me to stay to the main streets, especially when I'm needed to run errands so early in the morning. That's why I was there," she said, holding out the basket that she still clung to. How had she held onto it? Was it worth it?

"There were dyes he needed, and thread. It took all of last week's earnings to buy these." She caught sight of the disbelieving look Spot was giving her and read it correctly. "I couldn't leave it behind. Not even when that... that man tried to take it."

Spot was begrudgingly impressed. The man tried to take her, too, and she thought only of her father's basket.

"Say, what's your name, Red?"

Her cheeks colored scarlet. "Charlotte."

Spot thought it over for a second and he shook his head. "Nope, like Red better."

The color deepened and she frowned. "Then what's your name?" she asked indignantly. It was like the spunk she showed with swinging the basket all over again. He never would've expected it from a girl like this one.

"Spot," he told her after another moment's pause. No matter what Mrs. Kirby said, Liam wasn't his name anymore. He was Spot.

"Spot? Like a dog, Spot?" Her eyes brightened. "The way you came running into that alley with your slingshot, you could've been my attack dog!"

Spot had to admit, he liked her version of his nickname better than the real reason—even if she did think of him as a pup. It was Butchy, six years older and as big as two Spots put together, who came up with the name in the first place, and Butchy wasn't the sort of boy you argued with. So Spot had been Spot ever since he took up the slingshot and couldn't hit any spot, no matter how big. Though he practiced and he got better, his name was still Spot just like Butchy was Butchy and Stinky Feet would always be Stinky Feet no matter what soap he used.

The way he saw it, he was quickly becoming one of the best shots in Brooklyn, even if that stunt in the alleyway didn't prove it, and still he answered to Spot. Oh, well, he figured. It was better than Liam. And, thanks to Red here, the next time someone asked where he got his nickname from, he had a better story—even if he left out the part of hitting the man in the ear.

That thought in mind, Spot spared a small grin. "Anyone woulda done it, if they coulda."

Charlotte—Red—opened her mouth to respond but she was interrupted before she got the chance. In the distance the circulation bell was ringing, a shrill, clanging sound that told Spot he was even closer now for his running with Red. He immediately hiked up his trousers again so that he wouldn't trip.

"I gotta go," he said with another sideways glance out onto the street. There was still no sign of the drunk and inside he was already cursing himself for getting so caught up with the girl. If he didn't move and quick, there was no chance there'd be any papes left for him to buy. "Time to sell the papes," he said by way of an explanation, lingering in that small cove only long enough to nod his head over at her.

Red started, leaning forward and holding out her hand as if that would stop the boy. "But I didn't say—"

She was too late. He was already gone.

"—thank you."

 

\--

 

Because Mrs. Kirby caught him the morning before, Spot did what he always did: he woke a little earlier, then took to a different stairwell, a different route right out of the lodging house—anything to keep the wily matron on her toes. He could've sworn he heard the tell-tale clack of her sensible shoes down by the superintendent's office so he skirted that hall and managed to sneak out back without anyone being none the wiser.

Except, of course, for the young lady who was hemming and hawing around the back exit when he got out there.

At first he didn't recognize her, or even have any inkling why such a girl would be walking down Buckbees Alley without any chaperone. Crossing his arms over his thin chest, Spot scowled and stared at the figure across from him.

She was wearing a coat, a beautifully tailored jacket with a hood that hid her face from him; the jacket wasn't so long, though, that it didn't hide the white skirt that fell just past her knees. The girl glanced up, startled at his approach, but before Spot could ask what she was doing at the back door of the Brooklyn Home, she reached up two pale hands and lowered her hood. The hood, Spot noticed, was trimmed with a red ribbon the same shade of red as the ribbon she still wore tied underneath her wavy, blonde hair.

It was the red ribbon in her hair that brought the rush of yesterday morning back to him.

"Red?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise. "What are you doin' here?"

She smiled over at him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a tailor's young daughter to search out a boy of the streets. "You said you were going to sell your papers yesterday so I thought you must be a newsboy. There aren't too many, um, places for newsboys in this neighborhood. I thought I might find you here."

He gestured at his chest. Spot couldn't help but mirror her smile, even if his was more of a wry smirk. "Well, ya did."

"I wanted to say thank you."

"And ya came all the way here to say thanks? Ya didn't have to do that. Anybody who ain't no scabber woulda done the same."

"Scabber," Red repeated, trying the word out for herself. She laughed. "So you're not a... a scabber?"

Spot exhaled and stuck out his thin chest. "Nope. I'm a newsie." The image of absolute pride he was going for was a bit lost when, as he puffed out his chest, his over-sized trousers started to slip. Used to it, his hand caught the waist of his trousers as they drooped, yanking them back into place without ever letting the air in his lungs back out just yet.

Red watched him with a curious expression: most of all there was her smile, and Spot Conlon found a pretty young girl smiling at him very curious. "I brought you something," she said, opening the front of her coat and pulling out a package from where she had it resting against her dress inside, "to say thank you for me." She held it out to him. "Here."

It was wrapped in newsprint, a small white tag painstakingly tied around the middle. A small package, he probably would've taken it for another scrap of some unsold paper if not for that tag. Or the fact that it was Red who was holding it out to him.

Without a word, and more than a little skeptical because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been given a gift, Spot tentatively took the package and slowly, carefully started to open it.

"I noticed that your pants, they didn't fit quite right. I'm nowhere near as good with a needle as Papa, so I couldn't fix them for you myself, but I thought that might be useful. And you said red was your favorite color..."

Red's voice trailed to a close as Spot stared down at the bundle of red something that rested in his open palms; the paper it had been wrapped in fluttered to the cobbles, forgotten. Aware of the weight of her expectant gaze, he shook the bundle out, watching as two long, slender strips of red—red, the same color of her ribbon—fell out.

He let out a short, pleased laugh as he immediately recognized the gift: a pair of red suspenders.


	2. Over and Over

_Brooklyn, 1900._

Like he did every morning, Spot Conlon was standing with his back up against the wrought iron bars of the distribution center's gate. Though it was early June, the mornings were still cool enough that the metal bars lent him a slight chill through the thin material of his checkered shirt; if it were July, his back would've been blistering by now, all the more reason for him to take advantage while he could. He watched the boys streaming past him with a careful eye and a couple of well-placed nods at those he knew whose loyalty to Brooklyn—loyalty to him—was wavering, sparing a small, near-indiscernable smirk when one or two of them were visibly rattled.

Good, he thought. It never hurt to remind his boys he kept his eyes on them.

There used to be the days when Spot would have to wake up far earlier than any of the other boys in his dormitory just to make sure he was at the head of the line. Nowadays, he was still one of the first to rise, he still snuck out, but he hadn't had to stand on line in over a year. It was just enough for his newsies to know he waited at the gate.

But he still sold newspapers.

Spot kept watch until he picked one particular boy out of the crowd. Only then, only when he saw that black derby bobbing his way in the sea of newsies, did he push off against the gate and head back out onto the street. Ignoring the slightly noticeable way the tiny boy jumped as Spot approached, he fell into step beside him; a diminutive-sized fellow himself, for once Spot felt like a giant. By the time he said, "Tell me, Squints, what kind of headlines do we got today?", Squints already had one paper out and open from the stack weighing him down.

In Spot's opinion, Squints Fallon was quite the find. A whole head shorter than Spot, he was maybe thirteen or fourteen—Squints wasn't sure—and weighed as much as a wet hankie. He was swallowed up the oversized grey jacket he wore no matter the weather; the black derby he was never seen without gave the impression he was a walking pepper pot. He was certainly easy to pick out of the crowd. And then there was his namesake. His squint. Despite the big, thick glasses he wore—or maybe because of them—Squints saw the world through half-open eyes. But he was smart behind his squint and he had the greatest trick: he could read while he walked, never once glancing up to see where he was going or where he had been. Like Spot, he knew every inch of Brooklyn.

Which was probably one of the reasons why Spot first gave the younger boy a quarter and allowed Squints to buy his papers for him. That, and because walking around with Squints as he read through the headlines saved Spot time—and, as everyone knows, time is money. The faster Spot got where he was going with the papes he'd need when he got there, the faster Spot could sell through his lot.

And it wasn't like Spot couldn't read, himself. He could, better than most. He'd been a newsie since he was seven years old and you couldn't be a newsie if you couldn't read the news. Hell, he'd learned to read from headlines, practiced his pronunciation on fancy dames' names in the Society pages, learned how to be insistently persuasive from the advertisements. He could very well read, but no one could read as well as Squints.

"Another corpse," Squints announced at last.

Spot nodded. Corpse was a good word in the headlines. "Sick, old or murdered?"

"Murdered," Squints said without batting an eye. "Looks like the Beast has struck again."

The Beast. No one that vicious could be a man, so even the papers took to calling the phantom that stalked the New York streets these days the Beast. In the last few months the Beast had already killed four young girls—according to rags like the World and the Journal; the stolid Sun remained certain they were all isolated events. Spot knew better. Officer MacMillan, one with a loose tongue after a shift down at the local tavern, he admitted that there'd been six murders already and the cops were stumped.

Spot didn't have a hard time believing that. The cops knew even less than they thought because, thanks to his ever present birdies, he knew for sure that there were at least seven deaths attributed to the Beast and counting.

He snorted under his breath. Damn monster. "Who's territory?"

"Looks like the Bronx."

Spot nodded again. That was Bruno's territory, the Bronx. He'd have to send a runner down to see Bruno later to find out what exactly happened—or, rather, what Bruno and his boys thought had happened. Nobody knew the news better than the newsies.

He had to careful, too, always had to be on his toes, always one step ahead of the rest. If he wasn't, if he faltered for even a second, the Beast might come skulking into his territory. And Spot Conlon, seventeen and proud, wouldn't let that monster into Brooklyn as long as he was alive.

Since shouting stories about the Beast getting another girl, even so close as the Bronx, was all but inviting him in, Spot shook his head. "Anything else?"

Squints opened the newspaper up, scanning the inner pages, looking for something to satisfy Spot.

But Spot found something else to catch his attention. When Squints dove back into his paper, Spot took a quick glance around at the crowd of people surrounding them. Squints started telling Spot about a promising story—something about how the seats at a Chicago circus collapsed, sending fourteen spectators to the hospital—when Spot caught a flash of red and suddenly he was no longer listening to anything Squints was saying. Without thinking about what he was really doing, he left his stack of papers back with Squints and started forward.

It had been nearly ten years since he met that girl, the first person who thought he was worth anything, especially a gift. They shared one summer, a summer of playing and running and laughing, of being children when the tailor's daughter was allowed out and the poor newsboy had finished selling for the afternoon. For the moment, under the heavy Brooklyn sun, they could be young and carefree, almost innocent in Spot's case. They could be actually free—until the morning he found her waiting for him again in Buckbees, waiting to tell him that her father was moving their little family away.

And then she was gone.

Ten years... it wasn't like he was searching for her or anything. Spot barely remembered his childhood friend at the best of times, even if he wore her gift every day. But, the flash of red... it wouldn't hurt to look, right?

Fulton Streetwas one of those long streets that ran along the East River, traveling the lengths of Brooklyn. It was always crowded, vendors on every corner, a place where the only newest of newsies, newest or stupidest, claimed a spot due to all the competition. By the time the circulation bell was ringing and the distribution center was opened, another busy morning had begun. There were people everywhere and Spot didn't know how he had spotted that flash of red in the first place—or how he was going to find it again.

And there it was.

It was a red ribbon that caught his attention, a red ribbon swaying in the summer breeze. It belonged to a young lady, one who kept her back to him as she navigated her way through the crowds. She never turned around to face him, never knew he was only a block behind her, but Spot could see the ribbon as clear as day, tied loosely around her dark blonde hair, keeping the long strands pulled back in a messy knot.

Spot moved faster, pushing past an uppity stiff in a stovepipe hat, dodging an elderly woman who was negotiating a purchase at the apple cart, stopping only when he bumped into one of his own newsboys already hawking headlines on the corner. Spot blinked at the hurried apology and recognized the goon as a new kid known only as Milton. Spot was right when he thought you had to be new or stupid to sell along Fulton Street, and Milton was a prime example of both. Even when Spot nodded away the apology, Milton kept on talking until Spot patted him on the shoulder and pointedly moved on, crossing the street until he was on the next corner.

But he was too late. The red ribbon was gone. The girl was gone.

Gone again. Gone like always.

Gone forever.

Spot stood there at the end of the street, unmoving. Without that flash of red to follow he stopped, lost in thought, somewhat surprised at his rash and reckless behavior; not because it was rash and reckless, but because there was no real reason for it, and nothing gained. He entertained the idea of going back and having words with Milton just to make the frustration go away but a quick glance behind him revealed that Milton wasn't as stupid as Spot first thought—like the girl with the red ribbon, the newsie too was gone. For the moment, at least in his opinion, Spot was the only one left in the world.

He plucked idly at his suspender strap. They were faded now, a mere pink from the vibrant red they'd once been, a pair of suspenders that actually fit now, too. When Red gave them to him all those years ago the suspenders had been meant for a man, not a boy, and while Spot Conlon hadn't grown as much as he would've liked—he still appeared to be scrawny and underfed, though looks could deceive—he'd certainly grown into Red's gift. His suspenders fit, his trousers fit, and no matter how many curious stares he got from those who didn't know better—though that was a lesson swiftly learned—Spot refused to wear any other pair.

He was still running his calloused thumb up and down his suspender strap when Squints caught up to him. The younger boy approached him carefully, fully aware of Spot's formidable temper; he wasn't known as one of the most feared newsies in all of New York for nothing. Squints nudged him almost reverentially in the arm. "Um, Spot?"

"Hmm?"

"Your papes? You forgot 'em."

"What? Oh, thanks, Squints."

Spot shook his head, clearing it. There were important things to worry about: selling his papes, making money, keeping an eye out for the Beast. He couldn't let the memory of an eight-year-old girl start him chasing after ghosts with red ribbons. Slowly, he turned his back on the front of Fulton Street, looking over at Squints. He wordlessly took the papers Squints was holding out to him.

"You sellin' down by the docks today, Spot?"

It was a silly question. Anyone who knew Spot—which accounted to nearly all of the Brooklyn boys—knew where he staked his selling spot: the docks that overlooked the East River. He owned that stretch, from the docks down to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, catering to the dock workers, the sailors, the Navy men and anyone else stopping to catch a breath over the river. It had been his for the last two years, ever since a fifteen-year-old whelp defeated the former Brooklyn leader.

Spot allowed himself a small smirk at that memory. Forcing Butchy out of Brooklyn and taking over the city was one of his cherished memories, right up there with that summer with Red.

Red.

The smirk slid into a determined frown. Determined because, damn it, she was gone and the simple sight of a red ribbon shouldn't have him pining after a memory. He could have any girl in New York—why couldn't he forget her?

"Yeah... yeah. I'll be at the docks if ya need me." Spot hefted up his papers, carrying their weight easily on his slender shoulder. "How 'bout you?"

Squints shrugged. "Right along the end of Henry, by Pineapple."

And Spot nodded. It wasn't a bad spot, especially since Squints had to earn it himself. He might do what he could to get in Spot's favor—waiting in line, buying his papers, reading the headlines together—but he'd be damned if he let Spot Conlon fight his battles for him. Which was another reason why Spot liked the kid. He reminded him of himself.

"Look, do me a favor, Squints? Scotch sells down that way some days." Some days, Spot snorted to himself, try most. The Girls' Home was down that way and Scotch O'Reilly, Spot's reluctant right-hand man, was always trying to convince one of the looser girls to give him a try. "Tell him I need a runner sent Bruno's way about that story in the papes. Ya think you could do that for me?"

"About the Beast?"

"Yeah. Got to stay one step of a crazy bastard like that."

Squints removed his glasses and polished them with the hem of his jacket. When he put them back on, they weren't enough to hide the hero worship in his beady dark eyes. "I think you could take on the Beast, Spot. If ya had to, I mean."

Spot thought of the slingshot he still kept in his back pocket. The Beast was attacking girls with something that left them mangled and mutilated when he was done with them. A knife, claws, hell, Spot didn't know, but would a slingshot be enough to do any damage against a monster like that?

But he couldn't tell Squints that. Instead, Spot reached out and patted him on the back of his jacket with something close to affection. "Let's just hope I won't have to."

 

\--

 

"Here's your pape, miss. That'll be one penny."

Charlotte Woods already had the dull copper coin clasped between her fingers. She held it out to the red-haired newsie, smiling as she exchanged her penny for his newspaper. He nodded his thanks and turned to shout another headline—something about a murderous beast loose, a lie if Charlotte ever heard one—and when she walked away, her smile dimmed only a little. It was hardly noticeable, but the disappointment was there.

Oh, well. She'd dallied long enough, purposely taking the long way back just so she could pass by the distribution center that morning. Her father would be waiting for the thread he sent her out for—he would be waiting for her—and Charlotte didn't want him to know about her habit of walking further and further away from the new shop just to buy a simple newspaper. As it was, she knew she was lucky enough that he let her go on any errands at all. In the two months since they'd moved back to Brooklyn, this was only the fifth time she'd been allowed out—and only the second time she'd made it this far in her travels.

Then again, the only reason she got to go out and explore the city at all was that her father, so busy with his work, never caught her returning later than she ought to have...

Charlotte's father was a tailor, a line of work that kept him very busy, but the hours were long and the pay hardly enough despite his skill. He went where there was work which was why the small Woods family, just Charlotte and Papa, moved frequently, never staying longer than a handful of years until the business dried up and they needed to move on again.

But this was supposed to be different. This time, they were supposed to stay.

Mr. Woods' longtime friend was a Brooklyn butcher by trade, a man named Sanders. He was very successful, wealthy enough to own a small strip of shops with a row of apartments placed on top. When one of his tenants moved out abruptly, he called on his old friend, offering him a shop for his tailoring services and a quaint apartment for Mr. Woods and Charlotte to share.

They were out of Hartford and back in Brooklyn before the dust even settled.

It was a pleasant enough apartment, one made all the sweeter by the fact that Edward Sanders refused to charge his old friend any rent. Unlike the small room they shared in Connecticut, here Charlotte had her own quarters, the perfect place for a growing girl. Her father slept on a cot in the kitchen but since he was always down in the shop anyway, she didn't understand why he even bothered with the cot at all. Ever since Mr. Woods started selling his tailoring services out of the small shop next to the butcher's, he hadn't lacked for customers.

Which was precisely why he'd sent Charlotte out for fresh thread that morning rather than going himself. Not that she minded, of course—she would take whatever freedom she could get. It had been too long, too many years since Charlotte tasted the freedom she often associated with Brooklyn.

Though it added to her trip, she came up from the street from the opposite direction so that she wouldn't pass her father's new shop. The supplier Mr. Woods often made deals with when Charlotte was a little girl and they lived in Brooklyn the first time around, a man called Smithy, he was surprisingly still in business. He served his customers out of his home, a small one-room apartment in a tenement not too far from where the Woodses lived. The last thing Charlotte wanted was her father spying her coming down the street now when she should've been back close to an hour ago.

She was just about to slip up the narrow stairwell that would lead up to her new apartment when a sandy-haired fellow emerged out from the front of the butcher shop. He was tall and lean, with a chiseled jaw and strong arms from years of lugging around the whole meat waiting for the butcher's knife. There was just an aura of goodness surrounding him, of good intent and sweetness that was easily read from the depths of his dark brown eyes—they just seemed to shine.

It was in that exact moment when Charlotte could've fled up the stairs, unseen, safe, that he turned his head and those guileless eyes landed right on her. "Charlotte!"

There was no denying that she hadn't heard him, or that she didn't recognize him, either. He was the butcher's son, Thomas Sanders. Or, to anyone who'd known him for years—and Charlotte was one, her parents having been friends of the Sanders' family since before Charlotte was born—he was plain old Tommy. That is, if Tommy Sanders could be plain at anything.

Having caught sight of her, he swooped down on Charlotte, offering to take the basket of thread she was carrying, the basket and the newspaper she held close to her chest. Knowing she was caught, Charlotte allowed him to take them both, noting as he did that the newspaper had left a dark smudge along her chest. She bit down on her lip, knowing she was caught twice now. How could she explain the stain?

"Were you just going up?" he asked earnestly.

Charlotte nodded, waving at the basket he held. "Papa sent me out for some more white thread. He thinks we must've left a whole trunk full of supplies back in Hartford when we moved back to Brooklyn."

"You shouldn't have gone out on the streets alone. It isn't safe."

Tommy was frowning and that surprised Charlotte. "Why not? We've lived here before, Tommy, and the streets haven't seemed to change so much since we've been gone. I never had any trouble in Brooklyn last time," she said, excusing herself the small fib because she distinctly remembered a young attack dog scaring off any threat before it could turn into real trouble. "I'm seventeen now, you know."

"Yes, but the Beast wasn't around back then." Tommy's voice was softer as he followed Charlotte into the apartment she shared with her father. He hesitated for a moment but seemed to regain his resolve as he added, "Promise me something, Char."

Char... Tommy was the only person in the world who had ever called her that besides her mother. Using her mother's old pet name did what his soft voice didn't: it calmed her slightly, and she realized she was letting her guilt at staying out longer than she should've make her snippy with Tommy. She took a deep breath and smiled over at him. "Sure, Tommy. Anything."

"Promise me, if your father sends you out, please come down to the butcher shop and get me first. I wouldn't feel right, knowing you were out there on your own."

Her smile wavered; her brown eyes clouded over. She knew then that he was asking her for something she couldn't promise. Not now that she was back in Brooklyn for the first time in nine years. Not know that she had the taste of freedom again.

Though he waited on tenterhooks for her promise, Charlotte didn't have one for him. Instead, she asked, "What is this beast you're so worried about? I thought he was just a story!"

"The Beast, Char, and no one knows who he is. That's why he's so dangerous, and he's killing young girls just like you." He placed her basket and her newspaper on the small kitchen table before reaching out and patting her gently on the shoulder. "Think of your father. What would he do without you?" When she didn't say anything, Tommy continued to push it. "Do you promise?"

Charlotte couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Thank you for your help, Tommy, but, if you don't mind, I really must bring this thread to my father." And, before the butcher's son could say anything else, before he could even wonder why she'd had him bring it up to the apartment in the first place, Charlotte picked up the basket from the table where Tommy had placed it and hurried from the room, the twin ends of the red ribbon in her hair flying out behind her.


	3. Headstrong

Summer arrived full force that morning. Even though he got there as early as he normally did, the iron gate was too hot for Spot to lean against and he spent his time waiting for Squints at the corner, content with watching the boys as they passed. There seemed to be more newsboys than usual these days. Spot figured it had something to do with the Beast—with headlines like those, anyone could sell a pape.

He yawned as he waited, too tired for the heat; just because he woke up at the crack of dawn every morning, that didn't stop him from staying out all night when he felt like it. The flash of red he saw yesterday morning had haunted him all day until the only way he could forget it was to turn to another girl for help. Why bother with a memory when there were plenty of Brooklyn girls willing to spend the evening out with Spot Conlon? And Cinder Harrow, a dark-haired, wild-eyed factory girl who was good for seeing a flicker and sharing a drink or two down at the local dive bar, was more than willing.

That was one of Spot's tricks: drinking like a fish the night before and waking up without any reminder of it except for maybe a pair of heavy eyes. Yawning again, Spot pulled his grey cap down low and tried to rub the sleep away from them. But he wouldn't close his eyes, ever alert, watching and waiting like always.

And he kept watching and waiting until the circulation bell echoed again, signaling the close of the morning sales, followed by the slamming shut of the distribution center's gates. The last stragglers out of the gate scattered, clutching their papers tightly as they scurried off, hoping to find a good spot to sell.

Within seconds, Spot was alone with one important question: where the hell was Squints?

There was no sign of the black derby, or the grey jacket that he wouldn't need but would be wearing nonetheless. There was no sign of Squints at all, of him or the stack of papers that he should have brought to Spot by now.

For the first time in years, Spot was left without any newspapers to sell. But he wasn't really worried about that. He could afford to miss one day—Squints couldn't. Where was the boy? Thanks to his post right by the distribution center, Spot would've seen him if, for some reason or another, Squints tried to get by him unseen. Which left another question: had Squints even gone to the center in the first place?

Spot thought back to last night, trying to remember if he had seen Squints before he turned in. The whole night was a blur and Spot couldn't remember walking back to the lodging house yesterday, let alone who he might've seen when he finally collapsed in his bunk.

Then again, there were two floors of dormitories at the Working Boys' Home which might also be the reason why he couldn't distinctly pick out seeing Squints last night. And that wasn't counting the Cosy, those few rooms where they stuck the sick kids. Who knows? Maybe Squints came down with something.

Spot was feeling a little queasy himself.

The halls of the lodging house were like a ghost town, quiet and empty and too eerie for Spot's liking. By the time the morning circulation bell rang, the entire Home was all but vacant, and Spot rarely found cause to return until it was nearly curfew and the Home was already alive with bodies and voices. It was one thing to rise before the sun and sneak through the lonely halls when he knew there were a hundred sleeping boys nearby; it was another to tiptoe through the emptiness.

"Liam? Back so soon?"

In all his years in the lodging house, Spot had never figured out how Mrs. Kirby always managed to sneak up on him like that. It took all he had not to jump when her soft voice came from behind him.

Spot slowly turned to face the matron. She hadn't changed much over the years, though she was thinner these days, and her bright blue eyes always seemed to be expecting him. He thought about lying, realized he'd never get away with it, then told her the truth.

"I'm lookin' for one of the boys, Mrs. Kirby. Squints Fallon?"

"Ah, you mean Benjamin?"

Spot didn't know Squints had a first name but, considering he hadn't been able to get Mrs. Kirby to call him anything but Liam in ten years, it only served that she'd know it. "Yeah. Him. He wasn't at the distribution center this morning."

Mrs Kirby tapped her finger against her lip. "Hmm... I'm not sure I remember seeing Benjamin at lessons last night, either."

"He goes to lessons?"

"Oh, goodness yes. I see him in there most nights. He's a big reader, that boy. He'll read anything I have to give him. We're going over the Bible together now." She paused, concern etching itself into the lines in her face. Mrs. Kirby hadn't been the matron of the Boys' Home for so many years without developing an already impeccable intuition. "Is Benjamin all right?"

Spot didn't have an answer for her. He was too busy wondering the same thing.

So Squints never made it back last night. That much was clear—no matter how many boys stayed in the Home, Mrs. Kirby very rarely missed a face. If she didn't see him, then Squints wasn't there to be seen. But where had he gone? The last time Spot remembered seeing Squints himself was when he asked him to run a message over to Scotch—

Scotch.

"Thanks, Mrs. Kirby." Spot tipped his cap at her, obviously distracted. "You've been a real help."

Mrs. Kirby looked like there was something more she wanted to say. Her brow furrowed and her mouth opened but no words came out. She nodded instead and smiled, and Spot was long gone by the time Mrs. Kirby's smile dimmed and she retired to her room, coughing as she went.

After leaving the lodging house, Spot wasted no time in hunting down Scotch O'Reilly. Just like he told Squints, just like he expected of him, Scotch was lingering by the lamppost in front of the Girls' Home when Spot found him.

He couldn't miss him.

Scotch was nearly as tall as the lamppost, and not much wider; he looked like he'd been tied to two horses and stretched until he was the same shape as a taut rubber band. He wore an assortment of the donated clothes, a mismatch of a sporting vest, too-short trousers, and a light blue shirt he rolled up to his elbows. While Spot was fair-skinned, Scotch's skin was the color of grubby newsprint, his hair a shade darker. He spoke with an Irish accent, called himself Scotch, and had eyes as black as coal. Spot let Scotch have his fantasy. They were newsies—they could be whoever they wanted to be.

Scotch was Spot's reluctant lieutenant for two reasons: one, because Scotch was the first one to switch over to Spot's side when Spot ran Butchy out of Brooklyn and Spot rewarded Scotch for his loyalty; and two, because if Scotch ever got his mind off of the girls and out of the gutter for more than five minutes, he could probably run Spot out of Brooklyn next. Scotch could be charming when he wasn't trying too hard and charming people were dangerous. He had to keep his eyes on a fella like that.

But that was the thing about Scotch: he did try too hard. Not when it came to making sure the other newsboys did what they were told—because he was Spot's reluctant second—but when it came to the ladies he wanted so badly to win over. Take his habit of spending his mornings on this same corner, propositioning any of the girls who came and went. He was a fixture there, just like the lamppost, and since he wasn't half as useful, they ignored him. And yet Scotch insisted on coming back the next day and the next without fail.

Not that Spot minded that Scotch was so damn predictable. He liked knowing where Scotch could be found at any given moment. It made his life easier.

When he was staking out the Girls' Home, Scotch rarely had eyes for anyone who wasn't in a skirt but some sense of self-preservation—the same sense that kept him where he was in Brooklyn: high enough to enjoy the perks, but no too high for any unnecessary worries—made him look up and over at Spot as Spot joined him on the corner.

"Hey, Spot! You lookin' for me?"

"Could be," answered Spot, placing his hand against the cane he kept under his suspender strap as a silent warning. "Or I could be checkin' up on ya, Scotch."

"Checkin' up on me?" Scotch lost his easy grin. He'd known Spot for years now. Having him come by personally just to check up on you... that was never good. "What I do now?"

"I dunno. You send that runner like I asked?"

"Runner? What runner? When did ya ask?"

"I didn't. Squints asked."

"Squints?" Scotch cocked his head to the side, his eyes partly closed as he tried to place the name. He snapped his fingers. "Aye, he's that scrawny kid, isn't he? With the glasses and the—" Scotch closed his eyes even further, mimicking Squints' squint. "The wee one who's willin' to kiss the ground you walk on, o fearless leader?"

Spot didn't appreciate that little dig of Scotch's but he was in no mood to act on it. Let him find the kid first and then he could sit down and have a nice heart-to-heart with Scotch about a little thing called respect. "Yeah. You seen him?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"He was supposed to give you word about sendin' that runner to see Bruno."

Scotch nodded knowingly. He was on firmer ground here. Like every other newsie in New York, he was keeping tabs on the Beast. "The Bronx, right? I heard about the Beast strikin' there. I'm sure glad that bastard hasn't tried anything here yet."

Spot opened his mouth to agree, but something stopped him. With Squints suddenly missing, who's to say the Beast hadn't?

Who's to say anything?

Hell.

Scotch must've recognized that Spot had something on his mind and that whatever it was, it had nothing really to do with him. That made his perpetual good humor return—if Spot wasn't there to get on his ass about important Brooklyn stuff, then only one other thing ever mattered to him. Leaning over, he elbowed Spot in the side. "Say, word on the street's you was with Cinder last night." His dark eyes lit up. "It true?"

Spot shrugged. He couldn't really see why that mattered. "We saw a flicker. Nothin' to write home about."

"Sure," Scotch said, drawing out the word. He could make something out of any comment. Spot could've told him he took Cinder around by the Church and Scotch would've thought that was suggestive. "You seein' her again?"

"Depends." Depends, added Spot, if I see a red ribbon again first.

"Do me a favor?" Spot quirked an eyebrow at Scotch's question. Scotch grinned. "When you're done with her, put in a good word for me?"

Spot didn't even bother replying to that. He just walked away, his mind full with what Scotch had told him and what he knew now.

First off, Squints didn't make it back to the lodging house last night. Now Spot knew for sure—because Scotch was many things, but he wasn't a liar—that Squints never made it to see Scotch, he never passed along Spot's message. Huh. That didn't seem like something Squints would do, directly disobeying Spot's orders. Unless... Spot's cyan eyes gleamed as sudden understanding dawned on him. Unless the kid took the message himself. Unless, rather than leave it up to Scotch to send a runner, Squints became that runner, crossing into the Bronx to talk to Bruno's boys about the Beast's latest attack.

Unless... but he wouldn't have—

Spot stopped short, his fingers flying behind him to feel the reassuring wood of his slingshot. No, he realized with a darkened expression. Squints would, wouldn't he? Because it was exactly the same thing Spot Conlon himself would've done.

Which meant that Spot knew exactly where to go if he wanted to find Squints.

 

\--

 

It was the next day and, though she didn't promise Tommy anything—and not for a lack of trying on his part, either, since he tried to wheedle a promise out of her later that same evening—Charlotte spent the following afternoon in her room, trying her darndest to complete the stitching on a simply constructed white skirt her father would've had finished already. She didn't mind too much—at least it kept Tommy and his incessant worrying out of her hair. Her only regret was that she didn't dare try to leave and buy a newspaper again.

The sewing kept her occupied, a tedious task she normally had no time for. She was in another world, a world where it was Charlotte versus the skirt, and the skirt was winning. No one else existed in that world so, when the knock sounded at her door, it was both sudden and unexpected. As was the familiar voice that called out a second later.

"Charlotte? May I come in?"

Charlotte jumped, her hand jerking until the tip of the needle she'd been holding slipped and pricked her finger. Swallowing an unladylike curse, she stuck her throbbing finger in between her lips. The rusty tang of the blood made her wince but she'd been a seamstress—not a very good one, true, but still a seamstress—for too long now not to know how to take care of a slipped needle.

Her father's voice was the last voice she expected to hear. He left for the shop hours ago, leaving Charlotte to work on a skirt she'd been desperate to finish for two days now. She glanced at the seam she'd been working on, making sure she hadn't spilled any blood on the white linen. Luckily she hadn't, which was a good thing. One small drop of blood and she would've had to rip out a whole row of stitching.

With her sore finger still in her mouth, Charlotte used her free hand to lay the skirt out on the secondhand desk that, apart from her small bed, was the only piece of furniture in the room. She placed the accursed needle with its thread tail right on top of it, glaring at it once before she crossed the room.

She opened the door and wordlessly invited her father in. He took one look at her, sucking on the tip of her pointer finger, and understood. "The needle got you again, my girl?"

"Yesh—" Charlotte took her finger out of her mouth, absently wiping the saliva off against the pleat in the brown skirt she was wearing, "I mean, yes. Sorry, Papa. I know you tell me to be careful but your knock..." She showed her father her finger. Already a tiny drop of blood was blossoming on the tip. "The needle slipped."

"Then I'm the one who should be apologizing," her father said softly, taking her hand and looking her finger over.

John Woods was a short, thin man with very little hair but a bushy, yellow mustache that would put the thickest of manes to shame. He was about the same size as his daughter, but was even paler due to all of his hours spent in front of his sewing. He wore a pair of old, nicked spectacles, but they were shaped like half-moons and they couldn't hide his bright green eyes; in that respect, Charlotte took after her mother. Mr. Woods was a sentimental fellow and his eyes seemed glazed over as he sighed. "You know I would never want to see you hurt."

She waited until he was done examining the tiny wound before taking her hand back, cradling it to her chest as if that would make the sharp pain lessen. "I know, Papa."

Her father was now peering at her intently over his spectacles. Spending so much of his time working with small stitches, his poor eyesight and the spectacles he wore were just another mark of his craft, like the calloused fingers Charlotte was quickly earning. "And you know I only want what's best for my girl?"

"I know." Charlotte frowned. "Is something wrong?" Her frown deepened as a terrible thought came to her. "Is it something about the shop? It's ours now, isn't it? We won't have to leave Brooklyn again, will we? Not again?"

Brooklyn was the sixth city they'd moved to in the past ten years, and the first one they'd ever moved back to since they first left New Jersey when Charlotte's mother died. Jersey City held too many memories for her father, more of them painful than not, and she knew they would never return there. But why couldn't they stay in Brooklyn now?

She could tell that she was right from the way the sweat started to bead up along his temples, right in the place where his fair hair used to be long before he started to bald. Her father always looked older when he had to disagree with her, or tell her news that she'd rather not hear. Just then he looked ancient.

"It's Tommy, he was just in the shop... Charlotte, he tells me there's a... a beast on the streets. New York isn't safe anymore. Brooklyn isn't safe." Mr. Woods' shoulders sagged. "I don't think we should've left Connecticut. It's not worth risking you for a bigger shop."

Charlotte had to work hard to keep back her laugh, knowing full well that her father would only get himself more worked up if he thought she wasn't taking his worries seriously. But how could she? It was ridiculous when Tommy tried to make her promise that she wouldn't go out on her own, and now her father was frightened of the same streets that had welcomed them back?

And how could Tommy worry her father in such a way? The Beast was a phantom, a myth, a scheme the newspapermen came up with to make sales. And now Mr. Woods was convinced his daughter would be the Beast's next victim. She knew that her father disapproved of her taking to the streets alone unless there was no other choice—like sending her on quick, local errands like he had the morning before—but he'd never explained why he kept her so close to home. She always assumed it had to do with how suddenly her mother seemed to get sick and die when Charlotte was barely old enough to understand, but she never thought he'd fall prey to stories about a beast.

Why in the world had Tommy told Mr. Woods? And she thought he was her friend, too. Friends shouldn't snitch on each other. Especially to her father!

"Papa, there's nothing you have to worry about. I'm in no more danger here than I would be in Hartford." Crossing her fingers behind her back, she played the only card she knew she had. "Even less, really, since we have the Sanders so close. With Tommy and his father only a door away, and the new shop so close to the butcher's, what could happen?"

Her father seemed to brighten slightly at her suggestion but it didn't last. He started to wring his hands. "It's not that I want to leave... I don't want to leave. Ed has been so generous—"

"Very generous," Charlotte agreed.

"But the Beast... I don't know what I would do without you."

Charlotte surged forward, giving her father a hug. He was a short man and Charlotte was nearly taller than him. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised.

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Then that settles it," Mr. Woods said, patting his daughter's hair lovingly.

Charlotte stiffened. There was something in the way her father said that that made her think she missed out on an important part of the conversation. "Settles what, Papa?"

"We'll stay. We'll give the new shop a try, but... I want you to stay in, Charlotte. No more wandering around on your own."

"And this was Tommy's idea?" Charlotte asked. Her teeth gritted down in a sudden burst of anger and it took every ounce of restraint she had to keep her voice calm. Oh, when she saw Tommy Sanders again... would she have a word for him! She pulled away from him, searching his face for the truth.

"No, my girl. It was mine."

She found the truth—she found it, but she didn't like it.

Charlotte exhaled, defeated. There were precious few things her father denied his only daughter, but she knew perfectly well when it was pointless to push any point further. "What am I to do up here?" Trapped, she added to herself. Like a bird in a cage, she would be trapped.

"Ed told me that there's three apartments above the strip, not just two. There's ours, and one for him and Tommy, but there's another for their neighbors. A Mrs. Pierce is renting the rooms from Ed, and she has a young granddaughter just your age, Charlotte. Why don't you make friends?"

Friends... in all the years since Charlotte she had been traveling up and down the East Coast with her father, she could count the number of friends she'd made on one hand. In fact, she could probably narrow it down to two fingers. There was Tommy, three years her senior but a constant figure in her youth due to her father's close friendship with the butcher, Edward Sanders. Though she was crossly beginning to question whether or not she wanted to count him among her friends, there was no denying he was there.

And then there was an eight-year-old boy from her memories called Spot...

Charlotte was lying to herself if she thought the only reason she snuck out to buy a newspaper when her father wasn't looking was because she wanted to read the news.

Mr. Woods waited while she stewed on his suggestion a few moments longer before a small smile twitched his lips; his bushy yellow mustache seemed to dance with the motion. "Of course, if you'd rather I taught you how to move on from skirts to dresses, I could always resume your sewing lessons in the evenings."

That made Charlotte's mind up for her. Absently reaching behind her to twirl one loose end of the red ribbon she always wore in her hair, she wondered out loud, "I wonder what the granddaughter is like."

 

\--

 

By the time Spot reached the Bronx, it was late afternoon and the Bronx newsies were getting ready to head over to their own distribution center to buy the evening edition of the paper. He got lucky: as well as he knew Brooklyn, the Bronx was a foreign territory to him. When he heard the circulation bell start ringing, he followed a young boy in a newsie cap until he walked up to a set of gates not so different from the ones he knew so well.

But he didn't enter them. A newsie only sold in someone else's territory if he was looking for a fight and, while Spot was looking for something, a fight wasn't it. If he wanted Bruno's boys to show him the same respect whenever they wandered into Brooklyn, Spot would wait outside the gates until he found the leader he was there to talk to.

He didn't have long to wait. Just like he expected of him, Bruno Wright was at the head of the line and the first one to walk through the gates.

Bruno was a tall fellow, lanky and slender. He had a shock of dark hair, the bluest eyes anyone had ever seen, and he would've been good-looking if it wasn't for the long, jagged scar that ran from cheek to chin. When Bruno ran the last leader out of the Bronx, it hadn't been as easy for him as it was for Spot to vanquish Butchy.

"Spot Conlon," he boomed when he caught sight of Spot waiting for him. He waved his hand, wordlessly sending away the two stocky boys who flanked him, then walked right in front of Spot. He spit in that same hand and extended it out to the Brooklyn leader. Spot mimicked the gesture and the two boys shook. Only then, when that sign of friendship and respect was over with, did Bruno ask, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Visiting Bruno Wright was different than having a conversation with his Manhattan ally, Jack Kelly. Spot had to choose his words carefully so that he didn't inadvertently offend the Bronx leader. "I heard the Beast visited ya, Bruno."

"He did."

"Did you know 'em?"

Bruno shook his head. "Some prostitute picked up the wrong john from what I'm told. Simple as that."

"Seems like that's the Beast's type," Spot observed. The papers never came out and said so, but if a woman was alone out on the streets at night, what else could she be? "A pity."

When Bruno spoke, it was easy to see he was being just as careful. "You know, I'm surprised to see you comin' 'round these parts, Conlon. Woulda thought you'd send a runner by, one of your birdies."

"I did." He thought about the way Scotch had described Squints. Holding out his hand at about Squints' height, he said, "Short kid, glasses, black derby? Did ya see him?"

"No, can't say that I have."

That was just the answer Spot expected, even if it was one he didn't want to hear. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt responsible for Squints, which was silly, really. Boys went missing in New York every day, disappearing as if they'd never been, but Squints was different. Spot could feel it in his gut. And if Squints went missing trying to do something for Spot, then Spot owed it to him to do his best looking.

"How 'bout your boys?" Spot insisted. "Any of them see him?"

Bruno looked Spot up and down, appraising him. Like the boys who ran Manhattan and Harlem, Queens and the Battery, all over New York, Bruno knew Spot but he knew more about his reputation. Fiercely loyal to a fault, he would fight to the death for a friend but would turn against any enemy. It didn't pay to make Spot Conlon your enemy.

He jerked his head behind him to where his two lackeys were waiting. "I'll go check."

"'Ppreciate it, Bruno."

He stood there, determined, while Bruno talked to two of his boys but Spot didn't even need to hear the conversation to know what he was going to be told when Bruno came back. His reputation had gotten him this far, but the loyalty between the Bronx boys was tighter than anything its leader might feel he owed to Spot. When Bruno simply shook his head, Spot accepted that.

But it didn't stop him from adding, "You'll tell me if you hear anything?"

"From my mouth to your ears."

Spot could tell then that his audience with Bruno Wright was over. He didn't want to hang around in any case, but he wasn't too sure he could find his way back out of the Bronx again. He'd be damned if he begged the way off of Bruno so, with his head held high, Spot went back the direction he came, gripping his cane in his hand just in case someone in Bruno's territory hadn't already heard of him.

It didn't take him long to realize that he'd made a wrong turn somewhere. He was still heading in the right direction, he could tell by the sun in the sky, but the street he was walking down wasn't the same one he'd followed the Bronx newsie up. This was a quieter street, a vacant street, and the boys hanging on the corner leered at him as he passed. But they didn't say anything and Spot couldn't care less if they had, and before long he left them in the distance.

He walked a little further and not only were the corners empty now, but the streets were just as lifeless. The gas lamps were empty, no one bothering to light the way, and with the sun only starting to dip, Spot wasn't too concerned. The way he saw it, he was more dangerous than anything that could hide in the darkness—and that included the Beast. Right then, he felt he could do what Squints had thought he could. He could take on the Beast and win.

Not that there was any sight of the Beast. There wasn't any sign of anyone. A more nervous type of fella would've whistled to himself, something to break up the quiet, but Spot strode confidently through the street, the only concession that he was unfamiliar with it being the way his hand held tightly onto his gold-tipped cane. The quiet followed him, the only sound the smacking of his shoes against the cobbles until—

 _Crunch_.

Spot lifted up the heel of his cracked shoe. Glass. That was what had made the crunching sound. Glass... and that's when he noticed that there was glass littered everywhere, glass and a wire frame that was probably mangled long before Spot happened on it.

Glasses.

He dropped his foot again, mildly curious. Glasses cost a pretty penny and he couldn't think of anyone who lived in this part of the Bronx who'd leave a pair of them out to be smashed like that. The apartments along this street had the air of abandonment about them, which was strange when you figured New York was a city where seven to a room wasn't cramped, it was life. In fact, there was no sign that anyone traveled down this street at all except for the broken glasses and some rubbish at the side of the street up ahead.

Spot narrowed his eyes, focusing on the pile of strewn garbage left on the cobbles. Without even realizing he was moving, he made it over there and reached down for the black derby that was lying forgotten on the top of the pile. But that wasn't even the worst of it.

The black derby had been dropped on top of a crumpled bit of grey fabric. Forcing himself to keep calm while his hands were already shaking in anger, Spot picked up the fabric and shook it out until he could tell that it was a familiar grey jacket dotted all over with an even more familiar brown.

Brown... the sick brown color that, mere hours ago, must've been a bright, vivid red.


	4. Broken Wings

There was no sign of Squints Fallon anywhere.

Spot spent far too long in the Bronx, looking around, stubbornly trying to follow a cold trail after Squints and failing miserably. He left Squints' glasses in the dirt because they were too damaged to do any good; the jacket and the hat he took, hoping he would be able to return them to their owner. Except, as the late afternoon gave way to the later evening, Spot was beginning to expect he never would.

Before he headed back to Brooklyn, Spot sought Bruno Wright out at his lodging house, demanding he get to see the leader. It was a sign of disrespect very few could get away with but Spot wasn't worried about bruising Bruno's ego. And Bruno was no fool—when Spot Conlon called you out, you came if only to avoid answering to his anger later than sooner. Spot was reckless and impulsive in the throes of a fiery temper, but he was creative if left to wait.

The back door to the their lodging house was the Bronx newsies' domain but Spot took it over seamlessly. The other boys gave him his space; the relief was palpable when Bruno appeared in the doorway to deal with his opposite number from Brooklyn. The heat of Spot's barely contained fury was something fierce and at first Bruno was at a loss. He didn't really understand where Spot could've gotten the bloody jacket from or why why he was carrying it with him but the black derby the volatile Brooklyn leader kept crooked in his arm... with a realization that sunk Bruno's stomach, the derby triggered the memory of Spot's earlier visit. Short kid, glasses, black derby...

Shit. If that's what he thought it was, they were in trouble.

Bruno tried to play it cool. "So, you found your runner?"

"Not me, but someone did. I found these—" Spot hefted up the jacket and cocked his elbow, gesturing to the derby "—in your territory, Bruno. You want to tell me how they got there?"

"Beats me, I—"

"Save it," snapped Spot. "Don't insult either of us by thinkin' I'm stupid. This borough is yours, it belongs to you. No one takes a dump here without you knowin' about it. And you're gonna stand there and tell me you don't know nothin' 'bout these?"

Bruno's expression was undreadable. He didn't know whether he should be flattered and proud at Spot's words or just plain ticked off that he didn't know what happened to Spot's runner. He settled on appearing confident because if there was one thing he knew for sure, Bruno Wright didn't want a war with Brooklyn.

"Don't you worry 'bout it, Conlon. I'm a find out what happened to your kid... the Beast, maybe—" Because, these days, everyone thought of the Beast first and for obvious reasons "—or... or someone else, I don't know. But when I do... when I find 'em, you can have 'em."

And that was sure as hell saying something. In the Bronx—just like every other part of New York—loyalty was everything, but sometimes it didn't trump saving your own skin.

Bruno's insistence was enough to bring Spot back around; the haze of fury lifted just enough for him to nod. "From your mouth to my ear, right?"

"You got it."

And then they had spitshook the only way the two leaders could: with a grim purpose and the promise of grave retribution.

With Bruno's promise in his back pocket—whatever that was worth—Spot pointedly brought Squints' jacket and his derby with him back to Brooklyn. Despite shelling out another hard-earned nickel for a trolley, he still arrived after curfew. Not that he minded, though he would've rather he'd stayed longer in the Bronx, still be looking out for some sign of Squints, since he was going to have to sleep outside—carry the banner, as it were—regardless.

The curfew for the Boys' Home wasn't as early as some of the other neighborhood lodging houses. It didn't have to be, not when it was so strictly enforced. Spot had lost count of the nights he slept under the sky, or how many favors he'd had to call in to find a place to lay his head down all because he refused to live his life by a pocket watch. He awoke when he wanted to and went to sleep when he wanted to and answered to no one in the hours in between.

Well, he allowed, except for Mrs. Kirby, maybe.

Just because curfew had already long past, that didn't stop Spot from heading over to the lodging house at any rate. He was stubborn that way, even if he was enough of a skeptic not to have much hope, and he wondered if Scotch was waiting up for him. Probably not, he thought sourly. And if he was, it was only because he was waiting eagerly to hear where Spot had taken Cinder that night. Because, Scotch's libido in overdrive as it always was, that could be the only reason to miss curfew and sleep outside—when you weren't sleeping alone.

Scotch wouldn't care about Squints. Come to think of it, Spot probably shouldn't, either.

Stubborn, right. He did anyway.

For once, though, Spot's stubborn streak paid off. He passed the front side of Poplar Street, noting that the lamps that welcomed the important visitors had all been extinguished, then continued on to Buckbees Alley, the strip that bordered the Home to the right. His hands full with Squints' jacket and his derby, he refused to put them down; it took a little effort, but eventually he tried for the handle and was surprised when it turned.

The door was still open.

It was with mixed feelings that he let himself in through the side entrance. Mrs. Kirby had been a little off-color lately, going to sleep earlier and earlier, sometimes even locking herself in her rooms shortly after evening lessons; a former teacher, Mrs. Kirby had to be on her deathbed before she canceled a single lesson in the gymnasium. When Mrs. Kirby turned in, she left a member of her staff in charge to lock up and, more often than not, the women from the Children's Aid Society forgot about the boys' entrance. The front entrance, the visitor's entrance was locked promptly at curfew, but only Mrs. Kirby remembered about the boys.

He thought of Mrs. Kirby and though he wasn't one for praying, Spot went with the motions, crossing himself and muttering up above to anyone who would listen that the matron really had retired to her rooms already. Growing up in the Working Boys' Home, Spot was used to hearing the clicking of Mrs. Kirby's shoes in the halls as she made her rounds at all hours. He wouldn't miss it that night, though. Not when he remembered Mrs. Kirby and her concern over a Bible-reading boy named Benjamin.

Spot wasn't ready to admit he'd lost the kid just yet.

He made it to the third floor dormitories without running into Mrs. Kirby or any of her staff. Slipping in, half the boys were already sleeping, the other half almost there. He caught sight of Scotch leaning up on his elbows, an unsaid question written in his dark eyes, but Spot just shrugged. He didn't bother washing up but climbed into his bunk instead. It was one of the only vacant ones in the entire dorm but it never occurred to Spot it might be filled. He'd earned his top bunk the hard way. No one with half a brain would dare go near it.

He tried not to notice that the bunk underneath—the bunk reserved for Squints—was filled with a towheaded runt Spot barely recognized. But the hell if it was Squints.

As Spot lay on his top bunk, staring at a long crack in the plaster ceiling, he heard the snores coming from the bunk underneath, very aware that someone had already moved into Squints' old space. And then because he'd been trying his damndest not to ever since he found the glasses, he finally let his mind stray over to the Beast. Bruno may have been the first one to voice it but that suspicion had popped into Spot's head the instant he stumbled upon Squints' jacket.

In the months since he'd been active, the Beast hadn't struck in Brooklyn; if that's what happened to poor Squints, then what happened was just as bad: he took a Brooklyn victim. Spot held onto that belief for as long as he could because the alternative was unbearable. If Squints got into trouble because he was caught nosing around out of his territory by the wrong people, then whatever happened to him was Spot's fault. He'd rather blame the Beast.

But, really, could it have been the Beast? Squints was everything the Beast's victims weren't, most of all because he was a boy. Of the Beast's known victims—eight now, including the prostitute in the Bronx—they'd all been women of the night, easy prey for such a monster. And, most telling, they'd all been left to be found. Mangled, mutilated, torn apart... the Beast was proud of his handiwork.

Nobody ever found Squints Fallon.

Of course, that didn't stop Spot from looking. And nothing could stop him from believing that this was all his fault. So he scoured the newspapers daily for mentions of the Beast or any new victims, or for some sign that Squints had been discovered. There were nothing more than a few sensational articles wondering when—and where—the Beast would strike again. In the weeks that followed, Spot joined the line at the distribution center and none of his boys made mention of that fact. He bought his own papes, read them compulsively and sold them just as quickly without ever relying on the Beast to make his sales.

Before long, though, he had to accept the fact that Squints was just another missing kid. A lost cause. There were plenty in Brooklyn: boys who went down the wrong path, or crossed the wrong fiend, or simply couldn't cut it in the city. Nothing Spot could do could help Squints now. Maybe nothing he could've done in the first place could've saved him.

He stored Squints' old derby in his locker, just in case. The grey jacket was too morbid of a reminder and Spot threw it away the first morning the newspapers were free of any mentions of the Beast. Eventually he stopped waiting on line himself and started giving his money to Scotch to buy his papers so, by the end of July, he was standing by the gate again, pretending he couldn't feel the heat of the iron gate on his skin. Scotch, grateful for the good word Spot gave Cinder Harrow, was acting a lot less reluctant and a lot more like the right-hand newsie Spot needed just then.

While he got his city back under control, Spot still kept an ear out for the rumors, paying close attention to the rumblings and the murmurs of the Beast. He waited to see if he would hear from Bruno and tried not to be too angry when he didn't. No other runners were sent the Bronx's way and, likewise, Spot didn't see any of Bruno's boys trying to skulk around Brooklyn. Good. With the memory still fresh, Spot didn't think he would be able to control his temper if he did.

But he promised himself that he would avenge Squints, whether it was the Beast or someone else who left his jacket bloody and his glasses smashed. A Brooklyn boy, one of the Bronx's, it didn't mean anything—Spot Conlon was gunning for blood.

No matter. Nothing he said or did or told himself made the guilt go away. The guilt, or the anger.

 

\--

 

Making friends with the girl who lived in the apartment next door turned out to be the best thing Charlotte could have done.

Her name was Marjorie Harris, but she introduced herself as Madge right off the bat and Charlotte knew then and there that she could never think of Madge as a stuffy old Marjorie; she was Madge through and through, from the red lipstick she put on when her grandmother was having one of her headaches to the skirt she pulled up until it scandalously revealed much of her calf. She wore her curly brown hair short, reaching only to her shoulders, and she primped and played with it constantly.

She was the sort of girl who didn't care a lick what anybody thought as long as she was having fun.

Charlotte liked her right away.

Mr. Woods hadn't been kidding when he insisted that Charlotte stay in the apartment; after close to a month, he wasn't showing any signs of relenting. She hadn't left the upstairs once in the time since Tommy told her about the Beast that loomed on the streets and, while she itched to go out, having Madge around to lighten her spirits with one or another of her scandalously unladylike tales, it made her father's imposed captivity a little more bearable.

Because Madge wasn't allowed out anymore either. Charlotte didn't like to pry but she understood the reason Madge lived with her grandmother was because the girl was too wild for her parents. She'd gotten in trouble somewhere down the line, something about an unsuitable relationship, and the result was that Madge came to take care of Mrs. Pierce. The old woman was prone to headaches and fits that left her confined to her bed for days at a time which meant Madge had to stay within earshot to answer to her grandmother's every beck and call. It kept her indoors, it made her useful and there was no chance for her to get into anymore trouble.

But, like Charlotte, she was bored. She just didn't seem to do anything about it.

Madge was as grateful as Charlotte to have a friend, a fact she sealed with the red lipstick mark she constantly left on Charlotte's cheek. When pleased or excited, Madge had a habit of kissing everyone. And she never failed to make Charlotte laugh because of it.

After only a few weeks, Charlotte felt she could tell Madge anything, share almost all her secrets with the other girl. They saw the world the same way, the two of them kept upstairs—Madge because her grandmother needed her so often, Charlotte because her father watched to make sure she never went out on her own. The apartments were just like a jail, the open windows in their cells the only glimpse of freedom they were allowed. But having a friend, a partner in crime as it were, it made her sentence easier somehow.

They talked about sewing, which Madge despised even more than Charlotte. The two of them shared a passion for baking; on cooler afternoons, they would make pies and pastries together to satisfy Madge's grandmother's sweet tooth. They loved to gossip: Madge surprising Charlotte with some of the things she used to do—including trying to break into a newsboy rally last summer—and Charlotte describing all the places she had lived. Both girls were morbidly curious in their way and they spent many empty mornings speculating over the Beast. Who he was, what he looked like, why he killed. Charlotte's father would have a fit if he knew she was talking of such things, but Madge brought it out in her.

In fact, there was only one topic they couldn't seem to agree on—

"Charlotte? Madge? Anyone home?"

Tommy Sanders.

Madge patted her light brown curls with the palm of her hand, making sure they were set right, even bouncier than normal. She gave each cheek a quick pinch, bringing out the red, winking at Charlotte once before she called out sweetly, "In here, Tommy."

Charlotte adopted a tight-lipped smile, like she did every time Tommy stopped by. Ever since the two girls had become friends, he had found more and more reason to sit with them in between his father calling him down to the butcher shop. At first he was just checking on them, probably on Mr. Wood's orders; quickly, though, it was becoming routine, hearing Tommy's voice call just as Madge and Charlotte were sitting together in Madge's front room.

Over the last couple of days, Charlotte was beginning to suspect that Tommy was sweet on Madge. He was staying longer and longer every day, sometimes coming up with excuses—some pressing, some utterly ridiculous—to come back upstairs and visit when he was supposed to be working down at the butcher's shop. Madge, for her part, she welcomed him in graciously, shamelessly flirting until the strait-laced Tommy was blushing red and stammering his goodbyes for the evening.

It was part of Madge's fun, a way to amuse herself, and Charlotte suspected playing with Tommy's feelings was simply a game to her. It had to be. Like Charlotte, Madge was only seventeen. Though Tommy was already past twenty, Charlotte decided that seventeen was too young to take any part of life seriously. She didn't work, she spoke only to her father, Madge and Tommy and she wanted nothing to do with courtships of any kind. She was glad Madge felt the same way. Now, if only they could get Tommy to stop trying so hard...

And then came the afternoon when Madge announced after one particularly long luncheon with Tommy, "You know, Lotte, dear, you really should marry that boy."

That was the last thing she ever expected to hear from Madge. "Marry Tommy?" And she laughed. It didn't even dawn on her to check that Tommy was gone, safely out of earshot of their girlish talks, the idea was that ridiculous.

Madge clucked her tongue. "What's so funny?"

"Would you marry him?"

"In a heartbeat, sweetie!"

That sobered Charlotte up. "Really? Why?"

"Look at him! He's handsome, he's rich and above all, he's crazy about you!"

"He's the son of my father's best friend. I've know him since I was little girl." Charlotte shook her head in indignation, the ends of her ribbon whipping behind her until they settled over her right shoulder. She didn't know where this was coming from or why Madge had gotten such a strange idea in her head, but it was imperative that Charlotte set her straight. "Besides, he can't be crazy about me. I thought he was crazy about you."

"Me? Oh, I knew you were shortsighted, Lotte, but I didn't think you were blind!" It was Madge's turn to laugh, a high-pitched squeal that brought a frown to Charlotte's face. "And so what if you've known him since you were in pigtails? All the better reason to marry him, right? Your father would approve."

"But... I couldn't."

"And why not?"

Why not? There were thousands of reasons why not. She was already trapped—what would being married, not just to Tommy Sanders, but to any man... what would being married be but another cage? Just one where her husband held the key rather than her father. Marriage... she'd never thought about it before. And, at seventeen, why should she? Marriage.

She longed to run, to be free, like she could in those summer afternoons of her youth. She wished she could escape, go where she wanted to, answer to no one but her own curiosity. When her father spent the afternoons working but left her to do as she pleased, before he suddenly became her jailer. Before all that was there for her to look forward to was the next skirt she wouldn't sew and her afternoons with Madge Harris. And she loved Madge, it just... it wasn't enough.

Charlotte was suddenly restless, the soles of her feet desperate to move. She stood up.

Madge's eyes followed her but she didn't move. "You could do a lot worse than Tommy," she pointed out, leaning forward in her chair. "Don't you think?"

"I think... I think I'm going to go take a walk, Madge. I... I need some air," she lied. But maybe it wasn't a lie: she was certainly stifling under the weight of this conversation. Already her fingers were searching her pockets, looking for a penny. It had been weeks since she escaped, weeks since she even thought of leaving the apartment... but she had to. "Don't tell my father?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, doll." Madge winked as she sat back. "And, tell ya what: I won't say a word to Tommy, either."

 

\--

 

There was something about the docks overlooking the East River that managed to calm Charlotte. Everything, from the hustle and buzz of the crowd to the fishy odor that made her breathe through her mouth, all of it was so soothing, so different yet so achingly familiar that she longed to kick off her shoes, strip down to her slip and jump into the water.

But she didn't. Of course, she didn't. It wouldn't be proper.

She wished she didn't have to care about being proper. When had that began?

Tommy... marrying Tommy. Where did that come from? Why would Madge say such a thing? And why... why did just the idea of marrying Tommy make her feel like this? It was like the time she convinced her father to let her try some wine a wealthy client had given him for his painstaking work on a suit jacket. Her head was fuzzy and her stomach queasy and she was spinning, spinning, spinning until she was convinced she would end up on her back in the water, drowning and unable to save herself from going under.

It was stuffy out, hot, but the heat couldn't touch Charlotte. She hugged herself, pulled herself together in order to keep herself on her feet. She refused to think of Madge's humor or Tommy's endless visits. They had seemed so innocent at the time, if annoying for their frequency, but she'd never thought of them as anything other than friendly hello's. But if Madge was right...

Well that was just it. Madge had to be wrong then, didn't she?

Charlotte took a deep breath, willing herself calm. Now that she was outside, she felt freer than she had in a long time. She loved her father, she didn't want to cause him any worry, but staying in all the time... it was driving her mad. She hadn't noticed it until she finally fled and now... now she wasn't sure she wanted to go back. Back meant having to answer to Madge, having to explain where she'd been if she was caught by her father, of having to see Tommy again. Back meant willingly returning to her cage to have her wings clipped again. It would be even harder now that she'd left.

Maybe it would've been better if she minded her father and never left at all.

It was early afternoon, the sun still high up in the sky. Seagulls cried, the river lapped underneath the docks, and there was a single cry coming from a newsboy up ahead who ambled easily through the crowd, like he owned the wooden planks beneath his feet. Charlotte thought of the penny in her pocket. Keeping the grey cap in sight, she moved past the dock workers and the Brooklyn bums, intent on buying a newspaper.

If anything else, there might be a story about the Beast in there. Trapped upstairs, Charlotte and Madge made due with stale news and old gossip. A breaking story on the Beast's recent activities might go a long way with keeping Madge's interest away from Tommy Sanders and any inconvenient questions. And if Tommy or her father caught her, well, she was sure Madge would cover for her and insist Mrs. Pierce liked hearing of the news.

The newsboy had stopped along the edge, selling a paper to a leering old man who looked over the shorter boy's head and made eyes at Charlotte. Pretending she didn't notice his attention, she waited until the man tossed the newsie his penny before she hesitantly approached. The boy had his back to her and the soft clearing of her throat, a ploy to get his attention, was simply lost in the afternoon bustle.

The old man, who had more tattoos than teeth and probably hadn't had a shower since the last century, was still watching her, like a tiger stalking its prey. He spit in his hand and ran it through the tangled, grey mess of his hair. Charlotte tried to hide her disgust as she surged forward, toward the newsie. Between the newsie and the dirty old man, she'd take the newsie and her paper and get as far away from the docks as possible.

"Excuse me," she said hurriedly, reaching out and tapping him on his shoulder.

Maybe it was too forward an action. The newsboy stiffened under her touch, his whole body tensing as his shoulders rolled forward and the weight of his stance shifted. It was an automatic response, a fighting reflex from years honed, living on the streets, and she could see the way his fist tightened at his side—a ready-made weapon should he need it—as he whirled around.

Charlotte spooked like a filly and took a quick couple of steps back, holding her penny in front of her as if that would save her from some mad newsie's temper. "I just wanted to buy a paper," she gasped, thankful when her voice stopped him mid-swing. Then she got a good look at his face and she felt as if she really had been knocked back on her heels.

And Spot Conlon's piercing cyan eyes widened in recognition as he breathed out her name:

" _Red_."


	5. Edge of Seventeen

* * *

Red.

It had been years since she heard that name. Charlotte clung to the nickname like she clung to the memories of her past, even though an eight-year-old newsboy named Spot Conlon was the only one to ever call her by that name, _Red_. An eight-year-old newsboy with a pair of piercing eyes like the young man standing in front of her.

Spot was taller than she remembered but, she had to admit, not by much. A tuft of dirty blond hair was just visible from underneath the grey cap he wore pulled down low, and his strange eyes were watching her unblinkingly. A half-smile—more of a smirk, really—played on his thin lips; his head was cocked slightly in her direction.

He didn't say another word.

For reasons she couldn't quite explain, Charlotte felt overwhelmingly nervous. Maybe she had heard him wrong, maybe she was so desperate that she was turning a random newsboy into an old friend—

—and that's when she noticed the dark pink suspenders. Suspenders that, once upon a time, must've been the same shade as her ribbon.

She swallowed, tried to will herself calm and, with only the slightest hint of uncertainty, said, "Spot?"

"Huh." His smirk flickered, hesitant to reveal too much. Spot blinked once, slowly, and then nodded at her. "So it is you."

"And I can hardly believe it's _you_!" Her voice was high-pitched, little more than a squeal. Feeling silly, she covered her mouth with her hand and offered a wordless apology with the hunch of her shoulders. Spot watched her curiously; Charlotte lowered her hand and said the only thing she could think of: "You're still wearing my suspenders."

Spot glanced down at the suspenders he'd held onto for the last nine years. He thought of how he stubbornly he kept them and the countless boys he'd soaked over the years for poking fun at their shabby state and the girly color. He thought of how the suspenders had been his only reminder of a young girl called Red and how he'd always hoped to find her, but never expected to run into her on the Brooklyn docks.

And then, because he couldn't tell this young woman the truth, he lied.

"Can't afford to throw anything away."

It was a careful response, not the cocky one she'd been expecting. He was sizing her up, unsure what to make of her.

Well, that was Spot alright. Boldly reaching out, Charlotte plucked one of the straps. "You grew into them."

"People grow," shrugged Spot. He glanced down again, this time watching the crook of her finger as it brushed against his checkered shirt before pulling on the suspender. Why did he have the sudden urge to grab her finger and take hold of her hand?

But he didn't. He never got the chance.

The combination of Spot's short answers and his unblinking stare—the way he followed the path of her finger with an intensity that made her regret her forward action—it all made Charlotte's nerves return. It was a sudden reminder that while she was still Charlotte Woods, she was no longer the Red he knew.

People grow, that's what he said. And people change.

She clutched her paper to her chest, certain he could see the way her heart seemed to ache at that realization. "Oh." The summer air was thick with tension, even worse because of the stifling humidity. Charlotte discovered it was hard to breathe. Still, she managed a gracious, "Thank you for the paper."

"You, too. For the penny."

And that was it. Spot went back to paying more attention to his sales than to her and Charlotte knew it was high-time she started heading back to the apartment. Maybe, for once, she would have a story to tell Madge. She glanced at him one last time, Spot too busy skimming the front page of his newspaper again to notice, and she sighed.

People change, she reminded herself. And yet Spot Conlon still sold his papers.

Charlotte had to force herself away, pry herself from the docks so that she could head back. It was harder, though, when she looked over and saw the man from before. The grizzled old sailor was still eyeing her like a starving man hungered over a piece of meat. He hadn't forgotten her while she talked to Spot even though she had forgotten him. She froze, frightened. What was she to do?

Charlotte gulped, then ducked her head. Watching the planks under her feet, she pretended she couldn't feel the weight of his stare as she tried to slip past him unnoticed. He moved faster than she expected. One gnarled, scarred hand was wrapped around her upper arm before she'd even taken more than a handful of steps.

"Come with me, girlie." His breath was hot and smelled of cheap ale. Charlotte tried to wrench herself away from him but his grip was too tight. "I'm only in port for the afternoon. I'm lookin' for a little fun. Come on!"

"Ya know, I think you want to be lookin' elsewhere."

Charlotte's head whipped behind her to find Spot standing there, his newspapers tucked securely under his arm again, his manner cool and calm though the fire in his eyes was blazing. He looked the sailor up and down, sizing him up just like he had done with Charlotte; when he was done, he sniffed, unimpressed.

Spot moved closer to her. When he reached her side, he wordlessly reached out his hand. Her heart beating, Charlotte gave him hers, all too aware that the man hadn't loosened his hold on her arm.

"I found her first, boy," he snarled. "You can have her when I'm through."

Spot's eyebrow rose. His thin lips went thinner, pulled back until his teeth were bared. He squeezed Charlotte's hand; with his other, he slyly slipped his slender cane from its place under his suspender strap. The old sailor barely noticed. "I'm warnin' you and I'll do it just this once. Let her go."

There was no police on the docks; the law was conveniently missing on this stretch where boats were regularly loaded and unloaded with questionable goods. No one was willing to protect Charlotte before, and none would interfere between the dirty man and the newsboy now. Spot knew that and appreciated it; he preferred to stand on his own. The man realized it at the same moment, realized he would have to make a choice, and spared a fleeting glance over his shoulder.

The Brooklyn Navy Yard was in the distance, a sailor's sanctuary. But it was too far and the man was trapped between answering to this young pup or putting him in his place. If he wanted the girl, he knew what he would have to do. Licking his lips, his dark eyes rimmed red with drink and lust, the man yanked on Charlotte's arm hard enough to elicit a sharp cry out of her.

Spot's expression darkened. Quick as a flash, he raised up his cane and brought it down hard, cracking the man over his head.

He didn't wait to see the man's reaction. He heard the muffled curse, saw the man let go of Charlotte in order to cradle his head and immediately pulled on her hand.

"Follow me!"

Charlotte gasped and then choked on her laugh. It was a laugh of delight, a laugh of excitement and freedom and utter relief. Because Spot was saving her. Because Spot had _saved_ her. Because he was _her_ Spot.

Just then, just like when they were children, Charlotte would follow him anywhere.

Spot led them down the docks, weaving in and out of the late afternoon crowds. He jumped over a crate sitting at the dock's end, Charlotte danced around it, and suddenly they were back on Brooklyn's streets. And once they were on the dirt, Spot knew the sailor could never touch them. Let him have the sea, the river, the ocean—Brooklyn belonged to Spot Conlon.

When they'd gotten as far away as they needed to and Spot pointedly dropped her hand, Charlotte impulsively reached out and embraced him. Then, realizing that it was probably the least proper thing she could've done, she stepped back, folding her hands in front of her. But her warm brown eyes were shining and she was smiling so wide, her cheeks hurt. "Spot, ever my guard dog. You've saved me again!"

Spot eyed her dispassionately; now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was left to wonder what he had just done. He hadn't fallen into her hug though he immediately missed her when she'd moved away. What was wrong with him?

He shouldn't have interfered. If it was anyone else, would he have stopped? The quickest way to trouble was to go looking for it and take it when it belonged to someone else. Okay, maybe he would've stepped in if it was obvious the girl couldn't help herself, but to run away with her in tow?

Spot wasn't eight anymore. He was seventeen, and it was damn well time he started to act like it.

His cane was hanging limply in his hand. With the hand that was still sticky with sweat from Charlotte's hold, he checked the cane for any damage from the sailor's hard head. It was whole, no cracks or dents, and he busied himself with slipping it back under his suspender strap.

He couldn't take the way she was beaming up at him like that. Thinking of the few papers he'd managed to hold onto, he found his escape. "It was nice seein' ya again, Red," Spot told her, and that wasn't a lie. "Look, you'll be safe here. Go on back to your father."

Charlotte simply nodded. Now that the rush was over, now that they had gotten away, it only made her realize just how reckless she had been. Her father... he had no idea that she had left the apartment. What would he say if he knew?

But that didn't mean that she wasn't already planning how to sneak out again tomorrow. She called out after Spot, her words stopping him as he walked away:

"Will you be at the docks tomorrow?"

He turned to look over his shoulder at her. "Why?" he asked.

Charlotte just managed not to flinch at his suspicion; she used her innocence as her weapon. "Because I might want to buy another newspaper."

There was the smallest of telling pauses, and then—

"I'll be there."

* * *

That first night, Spot kept replaying the image of Red like she was a star in one of them flickers. The wide brown eyes, the honey blonde hair, the red ribbon she still wore... the girl from his memories paled in comparison to the young woman he'd met at the docks.

Sleep eluded him for most of the night. When he finally drifted off, he had strange dreams of a young girl in a red hood, a wolf—a _beast—_ at her heels. Spot remembered running after her, chasing her, an over-sized blade in his hand as he hunted down the wolf that threatened her. His eyes sprang open just as his dream-self jumped on top of the monster and it took him a heartbeat to realize that it was just a dream.

It wasn't the first nightmare he'd had of a beast stalking his streets, especially since Squints went missing, but the young girl with the red hood was new. He tried not to think about what it meant, but he couldn't forget the way he felt when that old sailor was pawing all over Red down at the docks. It was exactly how he felt during his dream, trying to put down the wolf. Desperate. _Angry_.

Spot rubbed his hands over his face once and then decided it was time to start his day. He didn't want to go back to sleep.

He almost changed his mind that morning, going somewhere else to sell. Because, deep down, he was almost sure he wanted to see her again, he wondered if it would be a smarter idea to avoid her all together. It was a backward thought, but seeing how just the sight of a red ribbon all those weeks ago had him running to Cinder, he didn't even want to think what it would take in the long run for him to forget Red herself.

But, then again, Spot Conlon didn't answer to no one. Never had, never will. He went to the docks because that's where he always went. He tried not to be too put out when he didn't find her there. There were papers to sell, pennies to pocket and expenses to worry about. The weeks following Squints' disappearance had left him hurting a little for funds and he was just as determined to earn his coins back before next winter came calling.

Not that it mattered. Red never showed.

Spot waited all afternoon, finally selling through his papers and finding reasons to stay on this dock rather than the one where he knew his boys liked to claim after a morning's work. Scotch would probably take advantage of his absence, lording over the East River, taking a crate and making it his throne. If he wasn't spending the day with Cinder Harrow, that was.

And it wasn't like he cared. He didn't. Why should he? She was just a girl. A pretty girl, yeah. A girl who was too good for him, sure. A girl who'd cared enough once to give him a gift... but Red was still just a girl. A girl he hadn't seen since he was eight years old and still innocent enough—ha, as if he'd ever been _innocent—_ to believe in fairy tales and happy endings.

There were no such things as happy endings in his world. For boys like Spot Conlon and Squints Fallon, there were just endings.

Spot didn't believe her when she said she would come back just like he didn't believe _anything_ anyone told him unless he could prove it himself. He didn't trust anyone or take anything at face value. Like when Jack Kelly over in Manhattan was after Brooklyn's help in the strike last summer, he needed to see that they were serious. He needed to know that they were willing to risk it all before he was willing to risk his boys. Only then, when Jack and his newsies proved himself, that's when Spot allowed himself to believe in Jack.

This city was no different than Manhattan. Brooklyn could be a nest of lies, as dangerous and as twisty as a viper. Spot had survived for seventeen long years by only ever trusting two things: his brain and his intuition. His heart had no place in keeping his skin safe; he refused to allow a childhood friendship to make him soft.

He didn't care that Red hadn't come back, or so he he fooled himself into believing until the crowd seemed to part and he saw her hurrying towards him. It wasn't quite a run, but it wasn't the ladylike stroll he would have expected from her, and for a second he was so taken by the way she grasped her skirt between her fingers, by the way her heeled shoes barely missed tripping over the hem, that he almost forgot to act like he couldn't be bothered by her. It wasn't his head that reacted, or his gut. His heart was pounding as she appeared and he pretended not to know why.

Then that second passed and Spot straightened; he didn't want to let Red think he was waiting for her. Because, you know, it just so _happened_ that this dock was the one he wanted to watch over for the evening.

Red didn't understand how to play the newsie's game. She wasn't coy, or unassuming; if anything, she was taken aback by the indifferent way he regarded her. "Spot?" Twin spots of red colored her fair cheeks. "I... is there still a paper left for me?"

"Could be," he said smugly.

"Isn't that one right there?"

And she pointed. His attention was drawn down to his left arm and the one paper tucked underneath arm that he had neglected to sell.

Okay. So maybe he cared a _little_.

"I'm so sorry," Red went on to say before he could do anything but quirk his eyebrow at the newspaper. She could tell her apology was necessary, though she wasn't so sure _why_. Either way, she felt she had to explain. "I had to wait to get away. My father—"

"The tailor?"

"Yes, he... I'm really not supposed to be out on my own," she confessed.

The red hood hiding hair the color of dark gold. A wolf with yellow eyes. A dagger ripping through matted fur... "Let me guess," he said wryly, pushing the images from his nightmare out of his mind. "The Beast?"

"Silly, isn't it?"

No, Spot thought with a grimace. It wasn't silly at at all. The Beast was a threat, a _real_ threat, and no one was safe. Squints hadn't been safe, all those whores from all over New York, they weren't safe. And Red... if she thought the Beast silly, then she wouldn't be safe, either.

But he couldn't tell her that. He didn't _want_ to tell her that. Why worry her now, when she'd come all this way back to the docks to buy a paper? Why worry her at all? She, at least, could remain innocent.

Spot cleared his throat, removing the newspaper from under his arm. "You want this?"

"Oh, yes."

He took the penny she held out, slipping it into his pocket without making sure she wasn't slipping him a dud. It was quite unlike him, but he didn't want to _not_ trust Red. While it would be only too easy for the tailor's daughter to maybe hand him a brass button over a copper coin, the girl he knew would never cheat him. She'd proven that to him in the past and he couldn't bring himself to think she'd changed as much as he had over the years.

But he did nod at her empty arms as he handed over the paper. "What? No gift?" A cocky smile tugged at his lips. It came easily.

"You still find use for my last one," Red pointed out.

"Yeah, but I had to save ya again. Another rescue, another gift. I thought it was only fair."

She frowned, almost as if he didn't know that he was joking—or maybe because she was so serious. "I know," she told him, and there was remorse there, "and I _did_ want to bring you something to show you my gratitude. And then I realized, what could I give you? What would you need? I don't know. I don't know you anymore. I'd like to change that."

"If there's a gift in it for me, I think that could be arranged."

Her eyes came alive. "We can be friends again?"

_Friends_. That one word was like a boot to the chest. It hurt, but Spot Conlon was too stubborn to let the girl see how much.

"Yeah, sure. Friends."

And that was the beginning of what Red called friendship and what Spot thought of as doomed. Because there was no denying it then, just like there was no going back now that he knew Red had returned: the girl with the red ribbon owned his thoughts. In fact, he thought of her more frequently than even the Beast, though maybe not as much as Brooklyn. Brooklyn and Red belonged to him and, within a very short while, Spot suspected he was as much theirs as they were his.

He didn't like it.

Ever since his mother died and his father started drinking himself into an early grave—one that Spot hadn't stuck around long enough to see—Spot had avoided making real attachments. He had friends, he had lovers, he had followers... but there was always a level of distance. Spot always kept himself a little bit apart. He'd made that mistake with an eight-year-old Red and he'd wondered about her for close to ten years. He'd made that mistake with Squints and look where that had gotten him.

Spot knew he was making that same mistake with Red again, a grown Red, a beautiful Red, and he'd be damned if he knew how to stop himself this time.

_Friends_.

He tried not to get too close, but that didn't work. Spot took his papers from Scotch every morning and spent his afternoons at the docks, selling away while pretending that he wasn't keeping one eye out for Red. But then she would show, always arriving in time to buy his last paper before they would spend a little time—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours—together before Red got antsy and had to return home to her father.

They went everywhere together, all over Brooklyn. Spot knew every inch of his city and he enjoyed showing it to Red. Her reactions were always perfect.

On their third visit together, when Spot brought Red to the Brooklyn Bridge and walked most of the way over as they talked, Red happened to glance over the side and shriek. It wasn't a newsie yell, a yell of freedom and defiance at the rippling water below, but a shriek of fright and Red's knees went weak at the height. She fell against Spot, heaving, and her hand found his. Spot helped her regain her footing, but they walked the rest of the way back to Brooklyn, hand in hand.

And Spot knew then that he was right. He _was_ doomed. Because Red wanted to be his friend, and he didn't know what the hell he wanted.

One thing for sure: it wasn't Cinder Harrow.


	6. End of the Innocence

Charlotte paused just before the corner, gnawing nervously on her thumbnail.

She inched closer, hugging the wall, holding tightly to her newspaper. Taking a deep breath, moving on the tips of her toes like a stalking alley cat, Charlotte looked around the corner with wide eyes and then, taking in the street, she exhaled softly. The coast was clear. There was no sign of Tommy or his father, or her father, either. She'd made it back without being caught again.

There were only a couple of strides before she was at the door that would lead her up. Charlotte hurried, throwing herself inside in case the butcher's shop opened first or, worse, the tailor's. She'd managed to sneak out all the last week without worrying her father and, if she wanted to continue, if she wanted to see Spot again, she had to be careful. Mr. Woods had recently taken on an order for a very elaborate dress and Charlotte knew it was only his preoccupation that made her daily adventures possible.

She didn't know what would happen when her father's attention wasn't so taken by his work. For now, though, she would make use of it while she could.

Rather than escape to her room, Charlotte turned left and headed straight to Madge's apartment. It had only been a handful of hours since she left Madge sitting in her kitchen and there were still a couple more to go before her father would finally retire to his cot. Until then, she would bring her newspaper in with her and try to wipe off the silly grin she'd also brought back.

Just like she expected, Madge was sitting at the kitchen table as if she hadn't moved. She lounged in her chair, her arms resting languidly like a queen on her throne. A hint of a knowing smirk quirked the ends of her mouth upwards; Charlotte wasn't so good at ridding herself of her giddiness once inside and Madge could read every emotion. But she said nothing about it at all until Charlotte joined her at the table and set the newspaper down, folded neatly in front of Madge's place.

"Another paper, sweetie?" Impeccably arched eyebrows rose as her slender fingers wrapped around the paper's sides. "Tell me there's something in here about the Beast. I'll just _die_ if it's all boring, stuffy politics again."

There was such an edge to her voice, little more than a whine really, that Charlotte almost believed Madge in her melodramatics. "Sorry, but I think that's your lot," she told her friend matter-of-factly, pulling another chair back and sinking into it. "Not that there's been anything about the Beast in ages. You think he's lying low?"

"Could be," Madge answered absently, setting the paper back down with a pout. She plucked at a stray curl, then her eyes brightened. "How about a scandal, then? Some rich dame get caught with her butler? Or maybe her husband is sleeping with the maid?"

"Madge!"

Madge's answering glare was one of reproach. Charlotte could see that her lips were still painted a vibrant red and her eyes, unlike before, were now underlined in a dark kohl; Mrs. Pierce must have taken to bed with another of her headaches. She couldn't imagine where her friend had gotten the make-up from—unless she brought it with her when her parents moved her in with her grandmother—or why she wore it when no one else would see it. Charlotte secretly harbored the certainty that Madge was a little more serious in her flirting with Tommy Sanders than she let on, but she refused to say anything about it. Any mention of Tommy lately made Madge moody.

And that wasn't the only thing that made her moody those days…

Her pout deepened until Charlotte could see every line on Madge's puffy bottom lip lit up in the thick scarlet lipstick. The kohl lent danger to Madge's gaze and there was something there, something that Charlotte couldn't quite place, as the two girls locked eyes over the discarded newspaper. It was hard and sharp and could cut like a knife. The words, when Madge spat them out, went even deeper—

"Hey, you're the one who gets to sneak out every day. I have to make do with the news you bring me. It's not like _I_ ever get to do anything fun!"

Charlotte's heart seemed to drop. She flinched, the first one to lower her eyes. "I..."

As quick is it came, that look—that spark... whatever it was—was gone. Madge laughed softly and, after a beat, Charlotte dared a glance up.

"Oh, don't listen to me, Lotte. I promised not to ask," she said, wrapping one of her perfect curls around her pointer finger while she tried to make Charlotte feel better with a half-hearted grin. It was true, too. Grateful that Charlotte never demanded details about Madge's early life, Madge did her one better and chose not to say anything about Charlotte's daily trips.

"It's nothing, Madge," Charlotte felt compelled to explain. "I just... I can't stay up here all day, that's all. If for only a few minutes a day I can walk around without feeling the pressures of being locked away, that's all I'm after."

There was Spot, too, but she knew better than to tell Madge about him. Not when there was Tommy to consider, and certainly not when she'd conveniently forgotten to mention him before. As far as Madge knew, Charlotte bought a newspaper from the first newsie she came too and spent the the rest of her time out exploring the city. Charlotte didn't have it in her to gloat over the truth.

Besides, Spot Conlon was her secret. She liked keeping him all to herself. And goodness knows Madge had her own secrets. Charlotte only had to look at the fresh lipstick and the kohl to know that.

Still, she had to offer: "You could come with me. The air tastes so sweet out there, you'd like it."

"Nah..."

"No, really. You could." If it meant Madge's happiness, she would introduce her friend to Spot.

"I've had enough of newsboys, trust me. It's not worth a paper to have to deal with any of them," Madge said darkly before waving her hand, gesturing at the stove behind her. "Besides, my grandmother needs me. Who would bring her her basket of sweets?"

Mrs. Pierce had a sweet tooth like Charlotte couldn't believe. In the worst of her headaches and her pains, only fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and sticky buns kept the woman in high spirits. If that didn't work, a sugar cube to suck on was better than any medicine the doctor sent over. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if it wasn't all that sugar that kept Madge's grandmother so ill in the first place but she never said.

"How is your grandmother this afternoon?" Charlotte asked, inwardly grateful at the change of subject.

"Depends."

"Depends?"

Madge cracked a grin, a genuine one this time. Maybe she was just as glad to have something else to discuss. "Depends on if you feel up to making some cookies before supper."

Baking was one of the pastimes that Charlotte and Madge shared that helped the two girls forget that there was a world outside of the small, cozy kitchen. Even though it was warm upstairs, Charlotte readily agreed to help Madge make a fresh batch of cookies for her grandmother. She grabbed the flour and sugar in their canisters while Madge took the crock of butter out to soften. The routine was so familiar after the last month and a half and they worked in a companionable silence as they started the cookie dough.

It wasn't until Madge had already measured the sugar and the flour that she said anything at all. And when she did, it was a doozy:

"Tommy's been looking for you, Lotte. Coming up after you leave and asking for you in particular. I thought you should know."

"Tommy?" Charlotte froze. That was the last thing she was expecting to hear. "Did you—"

Madge chuckled and brushed her hair out of her face with one hand as she used a wooden spoon to mix the dry ingredients together. "Relax, dearie. I told him you ran out to get a newspaper for my grandmother _and_ I made him promise not to tell your father. There's nothing for you to worry about." She set her spoon down. "Can you pass me the eggs?"

"How many?"

"Two."

"Do you think he will?" Charlotte asked, grabbing two fresh eggs from the icebox; the icebox was always stocked courtesy of Mr. Sanders and the young boy he paid to do outside errands for the frail Mrs. Pierce. She barely noticed it was full again. Regardless of what Madge said, Charlotte was already fretting. "Keep his promise, I mean?"

Madge didn't quite meet her eyes as she cracked the eggs and added them to the bowl. "Of course, Lotte," she said, tossing the eggshells away.

"Really?"

"I told him he'd be upsetting you if he went and snitched. And I promised him that that's all your doing, buying a newspaper. No harm done, right? I mean—" Madge looked over at her shrewdly, a swipe of flour dusting one cheek "—that _is_ all you're doing, isn't it?"

"Yes, Madge."

She felt terrible lying to Madge. She tried not to think about that, or how Madge had said that Tommy had been looking for her; she never left before he'd visited for lunch and it was queer to hear that he was coming back up again after she escaped. Instead, she said, "And Tommy really gave his word?"

"I told you, honey," Madge huffed, whisking the sugar-flour-egg mixture with more oomph than was necessary. "That boy's _crazy_ about you."

Charlotte's stomach did a flip-flop at Madge's words before it sank down to her shoes. Even though Madge said nothing else about Tommy, when the cookies were coming out of the oven, Charlotte didn't have a single one to taste before Mrs. Pierce got the rest.

She didn't have the appetite.

* * *

"It must be so exciting, being a newsie."

They were in Prospect Park, walking around a small part on the east end alongside Ninth Avenue known as the meadow. Red had her hair tied back neatly; the red ribbon she wore was tied in an elaborate bow. It was hot, the heavy sunshine a weight on their shoulders, but Red stayed close to the little shade the trees bordering the meadow offered. Spot walked on her left, showing no sign of any discomfort. He didn't sweat, he didn't pant, he didn't do anything but smirk in that way he had—cocky and sure, as if nothing could bother him.

Though he did gave a little start at Red's comment. She sounded so earnest, and he could understand where she was coming from to a degree. But she was wrong. Because walking the streets of Brooklyn, lying and cheating and doing whatever he could just to sell another paper and earn another penny... it wasn't exciting. It was life.

He tried to explain that to Red but she wasn't having it.

"No, I mean it. The freedom, going where you'd like, doing what you'd like, not having anyone to tell you what to do. Just like you."

"Now, hold on there, Red," Spot said. There she went again, glorifying being a newsie. Didn't she ever think about the long hours? The empty, hungry nights? The cold winters and the boys who got lost? Not to mention how independent and powerful she made him out to be... "I got people I answer to, right, just like _you_."

"You do?" Red was honestly curious. "Who?"

Spot hesitated. He was just about to prove Red right when he thought of one name: "Mrs. Kirby."

Red's brow wrinkled. "Mrs. Kirby? Wasn't she—"

"The matron, yeah. She's the one I got to answer to if I want a hot meal and a bed to sleep in at night."

"But that's just it! You have a choice! Papa... he won't let me choose. He says I must stay in and I do." Red paused, biting down on her bottom lip. "I _did_."

"You're here now," pointed out Spot. "Ain't that showin' your old man?"

He knew he had said the wrong thing at once by the way Red flinched and seemed to hug herself. She stared at the grass as they crossed the meadow, guilt keeping her head down. That effectively ended the conversation but not in the way he would've liked.

Spot looked around. Of all the flowers in the meadow, a dandelion caught his eye. It was perfect. He plucked it from the ground and held it out to Red.

"Here," he said when she didn't look up. He pressed the dandelion into her hand.

"What's this?"

Spot shrugged. "Consider it a gift, from me to you. Sometimes I don't know when to keep my mouth shut."

"It's not your fault." Red cradled the dandelion in her palms and gave him a tiny smile that made her face light up. He was instantly forgiven. "Thank you, Spot, for today. For bringing me here, even if I shouldn't have come. The park is beautiful. I really do love it."

Red opened her arms wide, gesturing at the meadow around her. Prospect Park was a brilliant patch of green in a city of browns and greys. She could almost pretend that there wasn't a big, bustling city out there at all, that the park was a forest just for her and Spot. It was big enough, they could get lost inside and never have to leave. Heaven.

A sobering thought hit her as Madge popped in her mind. She could just hear her voice, questioning the wisdom of staying in the woods where there was nothing to eat, nowhere to sleep and no oven in sight. Besides, wouldn't her father worry? And Tommy... Not to mention the Beast. Red knew that the Beast, the morbid nature of the killer, he wouldn't be too far from Madge's imagination if she knew about Red's journey through the meadow.

Suddenly, to Spot's surprise, she gave a little jump. She drew a little closer to him, eyeing a nearby bush with a skeptical look.

"What's the matter?" Spot asked her. "You look like you're expecting a rat to come out the bush or somethin'."

"I was just thinking about a friend of mine," she admitted.

"Another friend?" Spot tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. He doubted he was able to.

But Red was either blissfully unaware or, hell, the girl belonged on the stage. "Yes. I was just, um, thinking about how she would react to coming here. She... see those bushes, these trees? She would think this would be the finest place in all of Brooklyn for the Beast to hide out in. Wouldn't that be fitting? A beast in the woods, like all those folk tales?" Red shivered a little. She liked it better when she thought the Beast was a myth.

_The Beast_... Spot's jaw tightened at Red's mention of that monster but he just managed to hold on to his temper. He didn't want her to see him lose it.

"I've walked this park a million times in my life. It's perfectly safe, Red."

"I know. And it's not like the Beast has been anywhere near here."

Red held her dandelion close to her chest and sighed. Spot was right. Besides, with the sun shining, the birds chirping and all sorts of young couples out on an afternoon stroll, Prospect Park was the last place in the world for the Beast to hide during the day. But at night... "I just wish I could convince my father of that."

Spot said nothing. He didn't correct her or tell her of his worries and his fear that the Beast was closer than anyone thought. Because, for some reason, he couldn't find it in himself to tell Red about Squints. Probably because he didn't really know what happened to the kid, and most likely because he still felt guilty as hell. Either way, he kept that secret, though he did refuse to let her walk back to her father's shop alone.

Not while the Beast was still on the loose.

It was growing dark and darker as he led her back through Brooklyn. He could tell by the way Red would hurry ahead and then laugh guiltily when Spot had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her that she hadn't expected to stay out so late. She rarely talked about her father's insistence that she stay inside but he knew it was always on her mind. As much as she risked quite a lot to visit with him, he wasn't so cocky to believe she she would give up _everything_.

He wasn't bothered by the fact that she kept him to herself, that her father—or her girlfriend, he added to himself with a lot less bitterness than before—didn't know about him. In fact, he was doing the same, wasn't he? No one knew where he went when he was off with Red and he liked it that way. It kept her safe from most of Brooklyn's dangers, even if Spot hadn't figured out a better way to keep her away from the Beast.

Red's anxiety reached its peak as they approached the street where her father's shop was nestled between the butcher's and a bookstore. They both saw the light reflected in the window of her father's shop and Spot didn't know what was sweeter: the smile she had for him when she turned to face him or the relief that made her relax enough to touch his arm lightly.

To keep from touching whenever possible was an unspoken rule of the friendship they were trying to have. It made it easier on both their ends, the distance that existed between them. Spot refused to push past it unless Red invited him to because he didn't trust his control—but he welcomed anytime she seemed to forget herself.

Red's fingers lingered against his bare skin for a heartbeat longer before she took it back, almost unsure. "Spot?"

"Yeah?"

"I just... I wanted to thank you again. For the park, for this—" She held her prized dandelion up to her nose and took a sniff. She smiled, "—for everything. I had a wonderful time."

Spot jerked his head towards the dandelion, his eyes lidded under the light of the gas lamp. It had to be later than he thought if the lamplighters had already made their rounds. "You know," he told her, stalling despite himself because he wasn't ready to say goodnight just yet, "I'm still waitin' for my gift."

Red laughed. The uncertainty faded as quickly as her nerves when she saw that she made it home before her father noticed she was gone. "Isn't my company enough?" she teased playfully.

"I'd say so if you didn't get the luxury of spendin' the day with me at the same time," Spot tossed back easily. "So maybe that's two gifts you got off of me. You're slackin'."

"I'll keep that in mind." Red twirled the stem of the dandelion between two fingers. Her smile never dimmed. "Tomorrow?"

"You know where to find me."

He waited on the corner until Red regrettably disappeared up her stairs. Seeing the light still flickering in her father's shop, Spot didn't like the idea of leaving her alone but what else could he do? She should be safe in her apartment and he had the supper meal waiting for him back at the Working Boys' Home. It was cheaper than fighting for a meal in the pub or at the diner and after losing his evening sales by spending the day in the park, he had no other choice.

Making a move back down the way they'd come, he froze when he heard a familiar voice.

"Spot? That you?"

She slipped from the shadows as silent as a ghost, all dark hair and wild eyes narrowed and yellow-green like an alley cat's, and didn't stop until she was standing a few feet in front of him. Her arms were crossed defiantly over her chest.

Cat was a good word for Cinder Harrow. She walked lightly, could spot a sparrow in the dark, purred when content and hissed when angry. She spent her days working in the textile factory where she swiped the nails and tacks she kept as her claws; when backed up against a corner or attacked, Cinder never hesitated to swat back. She didn't need an attack dog. Independent and tough as a streetwise tom, she could take care of herself.

Even if she did insist on coming after Spot like a molly in heat.

He didn't have any idea how long she'd been there or what she had seen. Regarding her with something like disinterest, he drawled, "Cinder. How've you been?"

"Lonely," she pouted. "Who was the blondie?"

Spot pointedly ignored her question. So, she'd seen _enough_. "What do you mean, lonely? Where's Scotch?"

"Ditched him. All hands and no class, that one, not at all like you. Hell, Conlon, you even walked her to the door!"

Tensing at her comment, he refused to rise to Cinder's bait. He shrugged, forcing some of the tension back. "It's not like that."

"Then who is she?"

"No one."

"Really? You mean, she _ain't_ the new skirt you pawned me off on your old pal Scotch for?" Cinder sniffed and threw a jealous look the way Red had gone. "I didn't think she was all that pretty."

Spot chose to ignore Cinder's slight too because it was just easier, especially with the two of them standing right below Red's window. But he tucked the insult into the back of his mind for later. No matter what happened with him and Red, he was done with Cinder. Her showing up there sparked his decision; her pettiness clinched it.

Trying to brush her off and be done with her, he admitted, "She's just a friend," while pretending he didn't feel half as wounded by that as he did.

But Cinder was like Spot in her way: bright and stubborn and a bitch to get off the hunt once she got the scent. She wouldn't let it go and she didn't.

"You in the habit of givin' all your _friends—"_ And there Cinder spat out the word "—flowers? I never got none."

"It was just a dandelion. A weed."

"She seemed to like it."

Spot Conlon had the knack of knowing where the right place was to be and being there. Suddenly he was in Cinder's face, nose to nose with the factory girl, seeing his stormy reflection in her jealous cat's eyes. "Get this straight," he said quietly. Dangerously. "I don't have to answer to you or anyone. Got it?"

He met her stare until Cinder's breath caught. She was the first to back down—Spot had won. He dared a final winning smirk at her before he turned away. Only then did he hear her hiss of an answer:

"You don't, but does she?"

And Spot realized that the Beast might not be the only one he would have to protect Red from.

* * *

After finishing his supper—sandwiches he brought home from the local deli for himself and Charlotte—Mr. Woods pushed his plate away and then, as if gearing himself up for what he had to say, he cleared his throat. "I have wonderful news, Charlotte," he announced.

But Charlotte wasn't listening. Her mind had wandered back to that afternoon, how clean and green Prospect Park seemed, and how comfortable she was being with Spot. She thought of the flower he'd given her, the sweet fragrance of its scent, and how she placed it between the pages of her Bible to press it and keep it safe.

It had been little more than a few weeks—sixteen days, but she wasn't counting—since she ran into him down at the docks and it just felt so _right._ With Madge's help, she'd managed to spend at least an hour with Spot nearly every day since then. It was like she was a little girl again, free and alive and it had everything to do with her blossoming friendship.

Somehow she realized that her father had said something but, for the life of her, she couldn't figure out what. In a fog, she tried to answer him but all she could get out was a soft, "Hmm?"

"Charlotte?" Mr. Woods tapped the table to get her attention.

The loud rapping jerked her from her daydreams. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. Did you say something, Papa?"

"I said, I have wonderful news, my girl."

He seemed nervous yet excited and Charlotte had only a slight idea what could have brought about this change in her normally quiet father's personality. There was only one thing that ever excited him: his work.

"Let me guess first."

"Go on."

"Did you finish that lovely dress you've been working on?"

Charlotte thought of the dress in question. It was a white gown, beautifully tailored, of course, made delicately by her father's talented hands. The last few afternoons he'd been working feverishly on completing it, often forgetting to sit with Charlotte for supper. She hadn't been too surprised when she saw that he was working so late that night, and when he finally came up with sandwiches, she expected him to turn in immediately. But he was still sitting with her at the kitchen table and, for a moment, she was surprised but then felt happy for his success—if that's what the good news was.

He'd had her model the in-progress creation once or twice in the early stages to get the look of it right, more often those last few days, explaining that the girl who was to wear it was about Charlotte's size. She was used to trying on her father's clothes and would even visit him in the shop fresh from her visit with Spot without him being none the wiser. She knew very well that, once the dress was done and her father wasn't so preoccupied, her afternoons with Spot would become few and far between and she secretly hoped that maybe her father's news was that another expensive order had been placed at the shop instead.

Her father's nervousness became palpable in that instant. His mustache seemed to droop. "Actually, now that you ask, I _did_ finish the dress. Right before I came up, in fact."

"Did you want me to try it on?" offered Charlotte. His attitude didn't match his words: he wasn't happy, he was nervous and she couldn't understand why. Something wasn't right. "We can make sure there aren't any loose seams or pulled threads before you deliver it."

Mr. Woods cleared his throat. He chose his next words carefully: "Yes. Yes, I would very much like you to try it on."

"Where is it? In the shop?"

"Actually, I've already delivered it." Mr. Woods disappeared from the kitchen before Charlotte could ask him what he meant. She didn't have to wait long for an answer. After a minute, her father returned with a plastic bag. Charlotte didn't have to guess at what was inside.

"Here, Papa? I don't understand."

"It's for you, my girl. It's yours."

"Mine?" she repeated. Like the other day when her stomach dropped, Charlotte could've sworn her belly was sitting somewhere in the stairwell far below.

"Didn't you like it?" Mr. Woods asked. There was no mistaking the earnestness in his voice.

That wasn't the problem, Charlotte thought. "It's beautiful..." she answered honestly, "but for _me_? Why would I need such a fancy gown? It looked like a—"

The words died there before she could say them. Suddenly, it all made sense even if, in all the worst ways, it shouldn't. The white gown. The continual fittings, even more than normal when her father was filling an order. The way he seemed to be avoiding her lately, spending more hours than he should on that dress. The nerves.

The expectant look in his eyes...

Charlotte couldn't say the words so, after clearing his throat again, Mr. Woods did—

"A wedding gown, that's exactly what it is. It's your wedding gown."

She had to fight back the urge to scream, to cry, to sob, _anything_ , as the one question she'd never thought she'd have to ask came rushing out of her mouth: "Who? Who am I supposed to be marrying?"

His answer was nothing short of a mumble.

Charlotte whispered, "Papa?"

"Ed's boy. Tommy."


	7. Secret

_Charlotte whispered, "Papa?"_

_"Ed's boy. Tommy."_

Those words broke whatever spell the unexpected announcement held over Charlotte. With a gasp that sounded more like a strangled sob, she turned on him and fled to her room. The slam of the door did little to make his announcement any less deafening and she flung herself on her bed, burying her face in her pillow.

But she didn't cry. Her shock and surprise and sense of utter betrayal were too great to produce even a single tear.

Mr. Woods didn't stay alone in the kitchen for long. He didn't knock on her door, letting himself in quietly as he waited for his daughter to lift her head up. Charlotte was glad to see that, when she finally found the strength to look over at her father again, there was no sign of the plastic bag or the damn dress kept inside.

Her heart pounding and her chest heaving, Charlotte blurted out the first thing that popped in her head: "Married? Me? To Tommy?" And then, because she couldn't help herself, she went on to add her second thought before she even had the chance to think twice: "What about Spot?"

Her father was ready for any argument but that one. His shoulders sagged, visibly defeated, as he asked, "You found him then? That street boy you once knew?"

"And what if I have?" she demanded, reckless in her abandon. She'd never spoken to her father that way before—she'd never had any _cause_ to.

He knew it, too. Mr. Woods sank down on her bed, right on the corner, right by Charlotte's feet. Like she had with her pillow, he buried his head in his hands and when he spoke, he sounded much older than he was. "I tried so hard. Finding you a friend, keeping you in the apartment... but I left you alone too long. You disobeyed me and left, Charlotte, just like you told me you wouldn't. You must have." He sighed. "You got out."

"I did," she confessed, a tiny niggle of guilt beginning to gnaw at the edge of her consciousness. This wasn't how she wanted her father to find out about Spot—she didn't _want_ him to find out at all—but now that he had, she felt like maybe she was the one at fault... until she ran his words through her mind again and they clicked. Sudden understanding dawned on Charlotte's face. " _That's_ why you kept me inside? Not because of the _Beast—_ " She spat out the name, furious, "—but because you didn't want me to find Spot again? Why didn't you say?"

"We couldn't have you running off with that... that _boy_. He would ruin everything." Her father lowered his hands from his faces, wringing them together, twisting his fingers. His glasses were left askew on his nose. His mustache began to quiver. "I think he already has."

Charlotte ignored that. She refused to let her anger fade and turn to shame. "He was my friend, Papa!"

"I know, my girl. But you're young and you're lovely and I... we couldn't risk it. Because you're also a romantic, Charlotte. You say friend but what of him? What does he think of you? You're too innocent... he would corrupt you." And just when she thought her father couldn't say anything that would wound her further, he said in that simple, understated way he had: "You've been promised to Tommy since you were little."

She flinched, drawing away from him. "Promised? Papa, it's 1900!" Charlotte picked up her pillow and hugged it to her chest. The words were as foreign as any of the languages that colored the New York streets. She couldn't believe she what she was hearing. "No one promises their girls anymore. I should get to choose who I love!"

"But don't you love Tommy?"

Her father's quiet question was like an arrow to her chest; the simple pillow she clutched so tightly did nothing to soften the blow. Because that was the thing: _did_ she love Tommy? Did she love _anyone_? Charlotte didn't think she knew what _love_ was at all. Did she care for Tommy? Oh, yes, just like she cared for Madge and... and for Spot. She cared for them all in different ways.

She just couldn't say in _what_ ways.

"I've always thought I'd get a choice."

"Sometimes we don't get to choose who we fall in love with," he answered softly.

And again Charlotte thought of Spot. Of the afternoons they shared, the days at the docks, that time on the bridge, the trip through Prospect Park that very evening... the dandelion she kept and how a simple weed could mean more to her than the most expensive of roses. Then she thought of Tommy. How he was so sweet and caring, always coming to sit with her and Madge at lunch, telling the girls stories, always looking out for them. How he wanted to protect her, and how Spot had saved her twice already.

No, she allowed, sometimes we don't.

"Is that why we came?" she asked suddenly, desperate to leave her earlier train of thought behind. "The shop, this place... did you bring me back here to marry Tommy?"

"Charlotte, I—"

"Papa, please!" That was the most important question she asked, the answer she had to have. She couldn't stand it if their return to Brooklyn was tainted in such a way but she had to know. "Tell me!"

"It's not like that... I mean, I won't deny that times have been hard and that Ed's offer of a new start was welcome news. We've always planned that you and Tommy..." His voice trailed off again, almost as if he didn't know how to say what he had to say. "Tommy asked me for your hand. There was a choice, and he made it first. He loves you and he wants to make you his wife. I always hoped it would be this way. Wouldn't it be nice to marry Tommy?"

And Charlotte was reminded of her discussion with Madge. About how Tommy was going to be a wealthy butcher, following his father in his trade. About how he was a kind young man. About how he was crazy about her—

She said nothing.

"You will marry him, won't you?"

Despite him telling her that their newfound fortune had nothing to do with this... _planned_ engagement, Charlotte wasn't so sure that Mr. Sanders would be so generous if Charlotte refused to marry his boy. Madge's words echoed in her ear again: _Your father would approve. You could do a lot worse than Tommy._

Madge was right. Her father was right in his way, too. Tommy would make a good husband and, if things were different, if she were older and more prepared, this new might even have been welcome. She was seventeen and had no intention of getting married any time soon—but just because she didn't, it didn't mean that it wasn't going to happen anyway.

One look at her father told her that it was going to happen no matter what.

Charlotte took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She felt like she was teetering on the edge, as fragile as her father thought she was, and she was determined to prove him wrong. Kneading her fingers against the lacy edge of the pillow, twisting the fabric, pulling at the holes, she found a small release and, after a few tense moments of silence, she softly breathed out one word, "When?"

"Charlotte?"

"When, Papa? When is he going to ask me? When will we be married?"

Mr. Woods looked over his daughter carefully, trying to understand where this change of heart was coming from. Was she coming around so soon? He knew she had no reason to say no to Tommy Sanders—he even thought she shared his affection... until that newsboy of hers was brought up. He should've known better; he blamed himself that he didn't.

"Soon," he said at last. "I thought it best if you had a couple of days to prepare for his proposal. We can start setting the details for the actual wedding after that."

Charlotte nodded, absorbing the information without really understanding what it meant. Spot was still very much on her mind, and she said stubbornly, "I want to tell him."

"Who? Tommy? What did you want to tell him?"

She shook her head. "No, Papa. Spot. He's my friend. I won't let this stop me from having a friend."

"You have Madge," argued her father, but even he knew it was futile.

"Spot's different from Madge. I love them both, and if that makes me a romantic, then that's what I am. But no more of this keeping me inside." Charlotte's jaw was set, a habit she picked up from watching Spot. She only hoped she came across half as defiant as he did. "I... I'll marry Tommy, and I'll say yes when he asks me. But I want to keep my friends, Papa. Will you begrudge me that?"

Charlotte knew she was like a tightrope walker in a circus, walking a dangerously thin line where one wrong step meant she was through. Her father could very easily keep her inside if he chose to and, now that he knew of her afternoon escapes, she had no doubt that he would be watching her closely.

But Mr. Woods allowed his daughter this one victory. "I won't, my girl, but I can't speak for your husband. If Tommy tells you not to see that boy ever again, you'll have to mind his wishes. You do know that, Charlotte, don't you?"

And Charlotte lowered her eyes, staring at the print on her comforter. She bit down gently on her bottom lip.

"I do."

The victory wasn't enough but, for now, she would take it.

* * *

"Hey, you... you're awful quiet over there. Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

Secrets. That was what Red was thinking about. _Secrets_.

The air smelled like salt and fish and heat when she was able to get past the steamy Brooklyn stink. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the time she had left to spend with Spot but she couldn't and the secrets were the reason why.

They were far from alone on the docks. She enjoyed the noise; it was so different from the silence of her apartment, of her old cage, and she embraced it. It was another hot day in early August and she was willing to wager there were more boys splashing around the river, diving off the wooden planks than those who actually tried to sell their papers that afternoon; then again, she decided, with headlines like those, they could've all finished by now. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she lost track as she tried to count them, anything to keep the secrets from gnawing at her.

She was sitting on the docks, her skirt folded beneath her. Spot had pulled a piece of cloth from one of the crates that littered the docks—the tailor's daughter recognized it as canvas **—** and he laid it out to keep Red's skirt from getting too dirty. He didn't sit with her, though, choosing as always to stand, watching over his city. Watching over her.

Watching over his boys.

Something changed after Mr. Woods told her about her arrangement with Tommy Sanders. Red avoided Madge in the days that followed because she couldn't bear to hear Madge's "I-told-you-so"'s and she refused to see Tommy until she could figure out just what she felt about him and the fact that he wanted to marry her. Mr. Woods kept his promise and allowed her out as long as _she_ promised not to stray too far. He tried to get her word that she would likewise avoid Spot but that was one promise Red wasn't willing to make.

Maybe it was how suddenly free she seemed, coming and going when she pleased, arriving at the docks shortly after Spot did and waiting patiently for him to sell his morning papers, but Spot easily welcomed her. Having her near made him sell through his papers even quicker so that they could spend the rest of the afternoon together before he went off to sell the evening edition next. Even then, Red didn't press the need to return home and Spot didn't ask.

Still thinking of Cinder and how she always seemed to be wherever they were the nights after her shift at the textile mill had ended, Spot kept Red close. And it was as if their friendship, secret as it had been for so many weeks, became something stated. It was there for all of Brooklyn to see. Eventually, with Red waiting for him as he worked in the morning, Spot stopped keeping her away from his newsboy life. He stopped keeping her away from his role as leader of the Brooklyn newsies—and he stopped keeping her away from his newsies.

Of course, he had his reasons. Just like Red had her reasons for not wanting to leave Spot alone for long: mainly because she didn't know have any idea how much longer she'd be able to see him at all.

Red, in turn, watched the half-naked newsboys jumping and twisting and flailing as they flew freely and hit the water with a _smack_. She could feel Spot's heavy eyes resting on her and, where that used to make her feel secure, now she felt like a snake. Her insides squirmed and she didn't know who she blamed more: herself for keeping the secret to herself, her father for making this secret hers, or the Beast from preventing her from telling anyone.

It wasn't supposed to be a secret. No matter how much she wished she didn't have to, Red knew there was nothing for it: she would have to tell Spot about Tommy eventually. She planned on telling him that very day—in fact, some part of her was a little surprised he didn't know already. Spot always had his ear to the streets—he knew everything about everybody and Red had yet to figure out how. It would've been easier if he _had_ known because then she wouldn't have had to tell him.

Now she couldn't find the words to say it.

It was the Beast's fault, Red decided. The Beast and his most recent attack on a twenty-five year old named Tessa from Far Rockaway, Queens. It had been weeks, nearly long enough that people were beginning to sleep soundly at night again, and then he struck viciously as if to remind the city he was still out there. Still hungry. Still hunting.

Spot hadn't said a word to Red about it but he hadn't needed to. She almost swallowed her heart when she saw him standing in front of the butcher shop that morning, throwing small pebbles up at her window. She managed to make it downstairs without Madge stopping her and inviting her in to lunch, and she was out of breath when she grabbed Spot's hand and pulled him away from the butcher's window before Mr. Sanders—or, worse, Tommy—could see them together.

She heard the newsies' cries about the Beast and knew at once that was why he came. In that way Spot was like her father: he wanted to make sure that the Beast stayed far, far away from Brooklyn and even Queens was too close for comfort. Spot rarely spoke of the Beast—he seemed to be the only person in all of New York who didn't—but she thought she knew him well enough by now that the killer was always on his mind. With the most recent death, Red couldn't bring herself to add anything to his worries.

Not especially now when his very concerns over the Beast led him to welcome her right into his fold. It hadn't escaped her notice that it was that day of all days, the first mention of an attack of the Beast in the papers in weeks, that Spot brought her to this dock and allowed his two worlds to collide.

Spot had some secrets of his own, it seemed.

Still, Red hadn't been able to tell Spot about Tommy just yet and she knew that, when she went back to the apartment, when she was simply Charlotte Woods again, she wouldn't tell her father about the Beast's most recent victim. She didn't think his promise to let her have free rein for the rest of the summer would hold if he discovered that the threat of that monster was alive again.

Secrets... She couldn't tell Tommy about Spot, either. She was actively avoiding him until she could work out exactly how she felt about him because, while she regretfully understood that the engagement was happening whether she wanted it to or not, he hadn't actually proposed marriage to her yet. As long as she refused to see him, they couldn't have that conversation, and Tommy was being respectful enough to give her her space while she worked through this. She had to assume that her promise to her father had been enough to satisfy him for the time being.

Red suspected that everything would really change if Tommy found out about Spot. And she couldn't tell Madge, either—Madge was the one who called the upcoming marriage in the beginning and, for that, Red hadn't even been able to tell Madge her father's news, let alone about her friendship with a newsboy. Madge would never understand about her relationship with Spot or why it was so different from what she had with Madge or what she had with Tommy... Red barely understood it herself, but she knew she didn't want to lose it when she married Tommy.

And that was her biggest secret: that if she had to, she wanted to have both of them. She didn't want to have to give either of them up.

"Hey, Red?"

The insistence in Spot's voice was probably the only thing in the world just then that could drag her out of her thoughts. She blinked away the sun in her eyes but didn't move other than that. "Yes?"

"I said, whatcha thinkin' about?"

"Secrets," she murmured, the word out before she knew it. Red tilted her head back, looking up at Spot. He was watching her with the ghost of a smirk on his lip, curious and concerned and, overall, amused at the same time. For some reason, that made her bold. She couldn't tell him any of those secrets, but she didn't have any that she couldn't share. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"You know you can tell me anything." His answering expression was cocky and sure and a nice change to the preoccupied frown he'd met her with that morning. "What is there about you that I don't already know?"

Red was torn between wondering if Spot could read her mind and wiping that smirk off his face with one of her confessions she wouldn't make. But she didn't. All she said was, "I kept it."

"Kept what?"

"Your marble," Red admitted. "I still have it."

For a moment, she was afraid he wouldn't remember. Spot's face was emotionless, his thin lips drawn into a line as he thought about what she had said. And then the hard look in his eyes softened, his lips twitched just a little and she exhaled softly. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

It was Red's last afternoon in Brooklyn. She appeared in Buckbees that morning, tears in her eyes but a childishly stubborn will not to shed them. Her father was moving them away, to a small city in upstate New York where he was guaranteed more work. They would be leaving the next morning, early, and Red wanted to run away—but Spot wouldn't let her. Eight years in age but far older than that, he was wise enough to tell her she had to go, that she had to take care of her Papa. And, as much as she didn't want to admit, he was right.

They shared one last day together, two children running underneath the muggy Brooklyn sky, and when Red left to return to her father, they both knew they were saying goodbye for the last time; their summer of friendship and freedom had come to an end. Red tried to give her cherished ribbon to Spot to remember her by but he refused to take it. The suspenders were enough of a gift, he argued, and he was too proud to take anything else.

But he did have a gift for her. A perfect, round marble, a black shooter that was the best one he'd ever found... he made her take it. Because he was her guard dog, her protector, and he wanted Red to remember that.

Spot kept his voice even. "And you kept it all these years?"

"It's in my hope chest. No matter where I've gone, all the places I've moved with Papa, it's come with me."

"Why?"

That was another secret. How was she supposed to tell Spot the reason she kept his shooter all these years was so that she would never forget her first real friend? That she brought a little piece of him wherever she's been in life? She couldn't. So she told him a different truth: "I guess I always... I've always wanted to learn how to shoot a marble out of a slingshot."

Red didn't have to tell him. Spot understood what she was saying underneath it all. But he kept it cool; there was no way he was going to let her see how her confession, her secret made him feel, not with his boys around. It wasn't like Scotch was there and nobody else would even try taking a shot at their leader, but still. He had a reputation to protect. And, besides, it wasn't like he couldn't be accused of the same damn thing. He was still wearing her suspenders, wasn't he?

"I can teach ya," Spot said with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

"You will? When?"

"Right now."

As Red watched, Spot moved around the stacks of crates on this end of the dock, slipping beneath the wooden rungs, searching for she didn't know what. Thick coils of rope went flying and more canvas before Spot chuckled under his breath and came out with two bottles in each hand. They were brown bottles, made of glass and filled with some unknown—or, at least, unknown to Red—liquid. Climbing back, he set all four of them on the wooden rail and nodded at them. "Targets," he explained. "I don't need you aimin' at me and shootin' out my eye."

"How could I," Red asked sweetly, "with you as my teacher?"

"Let's see how much teachin' I'm gonna have to be doin' first." Pulling his slingshot out of his back pocket, he held it out to her. "Try and hit one of those bottles," he instructed, pressing a marble against the palm of her free hand after she'd taken the slingshot.

She got as far as trying to fit the marble against the sling and watching with a forlorn expression as it fell out, slipped through the planks of the dock and landed in the East River below with a sad, little splash before Spot clucked his tongue. Red felt her embarrassment like flames licking at her cheeks and she only just managed a little bit of dignity as she said, "It's harder than it looks."

"That's 'cause you're doin' it wrong." He held out his hand for the slingshot. "C'mon, give it here."

Red gave it back with a small huff. "Okay. Show me."

It was amazing the way that Spot handled the weapon. Because that's what it was once it was back in his hand: it wasn't just a piece of wood anymore, it was a deadly weapon. It was like an extension of his hand, two extra fingers that managed to fling the shooter with precision. The glass bottle seemed to explode in a shatter of brown rain.

"And _that's_ how you do it." Spot tossed the slingshot up in the air once, caught it, then handed it back to Red. "Now you try."

The slingshot weighed more in her hand than it had before. It was a foreign object and her fingers, already so clumsy when it came to a needle, didn't know what to make of it. But she would be damned if she didn't try. She brushed a loose strand of dark blonde hair out of her eyes, staring intently at the brown bottle mockingly waiting for her.

It seemed a lot further than when Spot took his shot.

Red set her shoulders and lifted the slingshot up. She was just starting to pull the sling back, the marble nestled neatly inside, when—

"No, no, Red. You're still not lookin' down the sight far enough. You gotta line up the shooter at the bottom of your eye, then make it match with the target you got. And your arm... it's too loose." He gripped the underside of her arm lightly and a chill shot up Red's spine. Spot didn't seem to notice as he stepped behind her and, her back pressed against his chest, he used her elbows to guide her into the proper position. His breath was hot on her neck as he muttered, "That's about right... now you just bring this hand back while gripping the sling and—"

He manipulated her hands like she was the puppet and he the master. Red delighted at the feel of his hand on her skin, but she was even more excited when the slingshot let fly the little black marble and it smacked right into the next bottle Spot had set up. It wasn't as clean of a break as Spot's—she hit the neck and it broke off, leaving the rest of the bottle whole—but that didn't matter. With his help, she'd done it.

She laughed giddily. "I want to try again!"

Spot let go of her arms but he didn't step away from her; the heat from his body warmed her back and Red, enjoying the sensation, refused to move, either. She did take the next shooter when he handed it to her but she leaned back into him, trying to mimic the pose she'd only just been in. It wasn't the same without his callused hands guiding her, but she thought she might be close.

"How's this?" she asked. When Spot didn't say anything, she turned to look over her shoulder, checking with him that her form was right. "Spot?"

When she turned, the red ribbon in her hair just missing slapping him in the face, she turned to meet his stare head-on.

Spot was right there, no more than a breath away. She could see his long, fair eyelashes and the way they made his piercing eyes seem even more powerful. She could see that his skin was still smooth despite the long years he'd spent living on the streets; despite all he'd seen, he still maintained an innocence to him, a little boy edge that was just as dangerous because she knew he was a fighter underneath it all.

Her gaze flitted downward, drawn to his lips next. They were right there and so were hers. And Spot was already leaning in.

It was only natural what happened next.


	8. Runaway Train

Despite the proper facade Charlotte struggled to hold onto, she was feeling anything but. Her heart was racing, her pulse pounding and the butterflies in her stomach flapped so hard she was afraid she was about to take flight. Then again, as she walked briskly away in the opposite direction of the docks, maybe she already had.

She ran her pointer finger across her lips as she hurried, not once daring to look over her shoulder; Spot wouldn't be there, he wouldn't run after her like a puppy dog, but Charlotte wasn't positive that, if she _did_ turn back, she wouldn't run straight back to _him_. Puffy and just a little tender, her lips felt the same as that morning, but could they be? Now that they've been pressed against Spot Conlon's, were they still hers? They certainly seemed to have a mind of their own.

She'd made some excuse as soon as they broke apart. There was a flush to Spot's cheeks, a brightness in his eyes she'd never seen before; she could only imagine how red she'd gone. He didn't say anything, just smirked over at her in that cocky, self-assured way he had. Spot didn't _have_ to say anything—the words "it's about time" hovered over both of them.

Which was why Charlotte had run away as quickly as she had. Spot might've been expecting something like that but she hadn't.

_Had_ she?

Friends. They were supposed to be friends. It was something, a stability she could cling to in the shakiness that followed her father's announcement that she was to marry Tommy Sanders. And though she'd never really thought about it, Charlotte expected that her future husband would be her first kiss—but now that she'd shared that with Spot, she wasn't sure she would've wanted it any other way.

Still caressing her own lips gently, the butterflies a mark of the uncertainty she felt, Charlotte wasn't sure about anything at all.

It no longer was so important which way she came up the street ever since she received her father's shaky permission to be outside without a chaperone but out of old habit, Charlotte took the way she was used to: coming up from the east so that, when she turned the corner, she didn't have to pass her father's shop or the butcher's—

—even if she did walk smack dab into the middle of an argument.

Charlotte froze, her hand covering her mouth in time to muffle the cry of surprise that nearly slipped out.

_Madge_ was the one doing the arguing.

She was facing Charlotte's way but, so intent on her conversation, she hadn't seen her yet. Standing in the stairwell that led up to the apartments, Madge kept the heels of her shoes perched lightly on the bottommost step as if to prove she hadn't really disobeyed her grandmother by stepping out onto the street below. Her light brown curls bounced and whipped around her head as she gave it a firm shake, never once losing her smile. She kept her voice low, though, too low for Charlotte to make out what she was saying, but not so low that the girl leaning lazily with her right side against the open door had to strain to hear.

It was hard to tell that Madge was arguing rather than just talking but Charlotte could. Madge was smiling, but the hard edge to her smile was back; it was twisty and sharp and ready to cut deep with a quick word. Her eyes, shadowed by all that kohl, they were blazing as they bored unblinkingly in the face of the girl standing right in front of her. Oh, yes. She was arguing.

The other girl kept her back to Charlotte, nodding every now and then as she drank in whatever Madge was saying. All Charlotte could make out was a thick mane of hair as dark as pitch that fell unbrushed, tangled down past her shoulders. She wore a long skirt with a tear in the hem and no stockings and stood with a slouch as if she couldn't care a lick about being a lady.

Charlotte was asking herself who this girl could be and why she was arguing with Madge—because, quiet and civil as it was, it _was_ an argument—when Madge glanced up and discovered her lurking on the edge of the corner.

A strange look crossed her face: a dark, fleeting look like thunderstorms rolling across the sky, it was there and gone again in the time it took her to blink. Madge broke into a pleasantly surprised grin, calling out Charlotte's name and waving her closer.

The girl with the dark hair spun around at the shout of Madge's "Lotte!", whirling on Charlotte like a stray cat ready to pounce. Madge's expression was nothing compared to the look of absolute and utter loathing she threw Charlotte—and her expression didn't melt away or change at all. It actually intensified as Charlotte, feeling silly she'd been caught and a little concerned by the stranger's obvious animosity, moved towards her. She sneered and snorted and Charlotte couldn't understand the force of her dislike.

Madge hadn't missed the look, either. With a final mutter under her breath and a careless wave of her hand, she brushed the other girl away from her before reaching out, grabbing Charlotte by the hand and pulling her up onto the steps. Charlotte let her, almost in a daze, unwilling to get too close to the girl with the glinting green cat's eyes and unable to say why.

Once Charlotte was standing with Madge, Madge put an arm protectively around her shoulder. Without another backwards glance or another word at all, she led Charlotte up to her apartment. Charlotte followed her lead. It wasn't until they were comfortably seated together at Mrs. Pierce's kitchen that Charlotte found her voice and asked the question that was lingering on the tip of her tongue:

"Who was _that_?"

"Cinder?" Madge asked, and Charlotte had to wonder what kind of name Cinder was. Or maybe Madge said Cindy? "She's just a girl I used to know."

"From here?"

"Oh, she's from all over." There was a dismissive tone to Madge's answer, a lightheartedness that barely covered a warning for Charlotte to drop it.

But Charlotte had never been good at picking up on cues. Fresh curiosity nagging at her, she didn't know when to stop. "What did she want?" she persisted.

"Something I couldn't help her with. Cinder had a favor for me and, well, you know I can't leave my grandmother alone."

"She didn't look too happy," Charlotte pointed out.

"Don't you worry about Cinder, Lotte. She's as harmless as a pussycat, I promise you." The way Madge could change subjects, go from one to the next before Charlotte could catch up, it was masterful. "Now what about you, honey? Standing there on your own in that spot, pale as a sheet... you looked like you saw a ghost!"

_Spot_.

Charlotte took a deep breath, suddenly miserable again. How had she forgotten?

It had been too easy to allow herself to push her kiss with Spot out of her mind when she found Madge arguing with that girl Cinder. Now, though, with Madge's shrewd gaze peeking out from underneath her concern, the full weight of what had happened came crashing back down on her. She sank deeper into her chair.

Something kept her from admitting all that out loud, how scared she was, how confused she was, but Madge was expecting an answer and, without even thinking of it, she gave her one—

"Tommy wants me to marry him."

Just like that, the most pressing worry on her mind up until that afternoon was out.

Madge didn't look anywhere near as shocked as Charlotte was when her father dropped the news. She nodded knowingly. "It was gonna happen, even I could tell that. So, how did he ask you?"

"He didn't yet. I haven't... I haven't given him the chance to."

That caused her eyes to widen slightly. "And why not?" she demanded.

"Don't you think seventeen's too young to be married?"

"Who said you had to marry him right away, sweetie? Take his heart, take his ring and then take your time. If he loves you like your father says he does... like I've said he does... he'll wait for you." Madge reached forward and pinched Charlotte's chin. "Who wouldn't want to wait for a face like this?"

So close, Charlotte was frightened that Madge could see where Spot's lips had just been. They felt like a brand, hot and searing, and she just resisted the urge to run her hand across her lips. How could she be talking of Tommy when Spot... when she... Charlotte sighed.

She didn't know how to finish her own thoughts anymore.

Madge leaned back, appraising her friend. "Alright. Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"Don't play coy with me, Lotte. I know you... what aren't you telling me?"

Her gaze was searching like a spotlight, a direct beam that locked right on Charlotte's panic and fears until there was no way she could squirm out from underneath it. And why should she? Madge had the right things to say when it came to Tommy. Maybe she could help Charlotte make some sense of Spot.

"There's... there's a boy," she admitted at last.

Madge's expression went hard but only for an instant. Her eyes softened and they twinkled mischievously as she teased, "Ooh... sounds scandalous. My, my, dearie, this is even better than the _World_."

"Please don't joke, Madge," Charlotte pleaded. "I'm serious... I... I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Alright. Serious... yes, I can be serious. Chin up, doll. You go on, tell me about this boy."

Charlotte hesitated again, unsure where to start or what even she should say. Might as well start at the beginning... "He's my friend. I've known him since I was little—"

"We're talking about Tommy now?"

"No! I mean, I've known Tommy since I was a young girl, but there was another."

"First I'm hearing of him," Madge noted.

"I wasn't sure if you'd understand." Charlotte bit down on her lip; she swore she could still taste Spot. "This boy... my friend... I knew him for a summer long ago. It was only by luck and by chance that I even found him again now that I've moved back. I thought things could be like they were but..."

"You've grown up."

"Yes," she breathed, so glad Madge could put the way she felt so succinctly. Hadn't she had the same thought herself? People grow. People change. "And so has Spot. He... he kissed me, Madge, and I think I wanted him to."

"Spot... Spot _Conlon_?"

All of Madge's humor was gone, evaporated at once. It was as if she never heard the second half of Charlotte's confession—her sole attention was occupied by the first. By the mention of Spot.

Charlotte blinked, startled. "You know him?"

"Let's just say I know _of_ him." Madge twirled one of her curls around her pointer finger. For the first time that afternoon she couldn't meet Charlotte's gaze, instead looking past her at the yellowed kitchen wall. "You're aware my family's from Manhattan, aren't you? Midtown?"

"Yes," Charlotte answered, drawing out the word. There was so little that Madge really shared about her own past but that was one thing she had. After all of Charlotte's confessions, what did Madge have in mind now?

"There's a group of boys who sell papers on the lower east side. Irish boys, mostly, street rats. But there was one. Jack Kelly," Madge sighed. "Handsome. Charming. He had me wrapped around his finger. I would've done anything for him, but I was just his toy. Newsies are like that, Lotte. Newsies and bootblacks and all those sorts of boys. They want a taste of home life but they can't stand being tied down. They take what they want and, trust me, honey, they want more than any decent girl should ever give... and then they're gone, and you're stuck living in an attic in Brooklyn, your family's dirty little secret."

"Oh, Madge, I didn't know..."

"Don't pity me. I mean it. I'll take your friendship and your stories but hell if I'll take your pity." She huffed, frowning in a way that made Charlotte feel even guiltier than before. "Tommy's a good boy. I told you before, I'd marry him in a heartbeat. He'll do right by you. You marry him, Lotte. Forgot about your Spot Conlon. In time, he'll forget all about you."

Before Charlotte could say anything in response, Madge reached out and patted her hand reassuringly. "Trust me, sweetie. I understand more than you'll ever know."

And Charlotte had to believe her.

* * *

Madge's words were still ringing in her ears later that evening when Mr. Woods knocked on Charlotte's door. He'd been extra careful around his daughter since the night he showed her her wedding gown and just then he was no different. Hesitant and cowed, he waited for Charlotte to call for him to go in before he opened the unlocked door.

She was sitting on her bed, staring down at her comforter as he walked in. She had been laying on her back, lost in thought, but the last thing she wanted was her father to start worrying even more over her. He might just think that it would be a good idea to confine her back to the upstairs until the wedding and she couldn't have that.

Even though she was sitting up, it wasn't enough to ward off Mr. Woods tension. She should've known something like this was coming but, still, she was almost blindsided with what he had to tell her—

"Charlotte, dear... Ed has asked if we would like to come have supper in his apartment." He paused. "You will come with me, won't you?"

"I have a terrible headache," she fibbed, placing the tips of her fingers to her forehead. "Is it so important that I go too, Papa?"

"If you think you could stand it," her father answered. His voice was full of concern and Charlotte felt terrible for taking advantage of him. "You've been invited."

It was to be her engagement dinner. Charlotte wasn't so naïve as not to realize that, even if it was the more unconventional sort. Engagement dinners were usually given by the girl's mother but as both Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Sanders were gone, it didn't surprise her that Mr. Sanders was the one taking over the arrangements. That was fine with her. The way she saw it, let Tommy's father take care of everything.

She wasn't sure how much she wanted to do with it all just yet.

But she couldn't disappoint her father. "Yes, Papa. I will be there."

"That's my girl. Why don't you get freshened up and I'll come call you when it's time? Wear something nice, if you would. And perhaps you could do something with your hair?"

Charlotte's fingers flew up to the back of her head. She wore her hair pulled back, knotted at the nape of her neck with her ribbon tied around it. It was the same way she wore her hair since she realized a young lady was more respectable with her hair out of her face. Didn't her father _want_ her to be respectable? He was marrying her off to his best friend's son for goodness sake!

Still, to humor the man, Charlotte did just what he asked. After he left her alone to get ready, she let her hair fall down, tumbling past her shoulders in slight waves. She ran a brush through her hair, her thoughts straying to Madge's friend Cinder as she did; that girl couldn't have owned one. As the smallest touches of rebellion, a reminder of who she was, Charlotte tied the ribbon up under her dark blonde hair, leaving a bow on top.

She pulled on the white skirt she'd sewed herself at the beginning of the summer, ignoring the fact that the hem was crooked and the stitches were nowhere near as precise as her father's. It didn't matter to her. Once she was married to Tommy, she wouldn't have to sew any of her clothes again. Mr. Sanders had enough money to keep her in store-bought clothes every day of the week.

Somehow that thought didn't make her as happy as it might once have.

Charlotte wasn't left on her own for long. Sooner than she expected, her father was at her door, ready to escort her across the hall to the Sanders' apartment.

She remembered that her father had once told her that Mr. Sanders had a woman come look after him and Tommy while they worked the shop; Charlotte never knew what happened to his wife and only assumed he'd never remarried for the same reason that her father remained a widower. Therefore, it was no surprise that when she walked into the Sanders' apartment for the first time, she could hardly tell that only a pair of men lived there. From the vase of roses that sat in the center of the table to the candles placed all around, a woman's touch wasn't missing.

The fresh smells of a dinner cooking wafted past her. Any other time, when she wasn't feeling so queasy, the scents would've been delicious and delectable—but Charlotte found her appetite eerily missing again. The roast cooking made her think only of Mr. Sanders butcher's shop and the money he made in it. She couldn't help but think that she was just another chunk of meat to be bought and sold.

And then Tommy walked in from the kitchen, carrying a single rose that he must've plucked from the vase. His father might've given him the same advice as hers because Tommy's sandy hair was combed back neatly. His suit was new, not a single thread out of place, and the winning smile he gave her held only the slightest hint of nerves behind it. His hands were shaking just a bit as he approached Charlotte with the red rose and held it out to her.

"For you, Char," he murmured, a touch of red staining his cheeks.

She took it graciously, her heart beating rapidly as their fingers brushed. "Thank you, Tommy." She held the rose carefully, wary of thorns, but there was no need to be—Tommy had cut each and every thorn from the stem before presenting the flower to her.

It wasn't a dandelion, but it was just as precious, and she knew she would keep it pressed and safe alongside Spot's gift.

Tommy's chest puffed with pride at her pleasure before pulling one of the wooden chairs out. "Let me."

Charlotte sat down gingerly and Tommy pushed her into place. He gestured to Charlotte's right-hand side, directing Mr. Woods to his seat. Only then, when both of his guests were seated, did Tommy take the chair exactly opposite of Charlotte. He left the seat at the head of the table free.

It didn't stay empty for long.

With a big, booming laugh that suited him perfectly, Edward Sanders appeared in the doorway. Mr. Sanders was big in every sense of the word: tall and wide, with arms as thick as a shank of meat and a red face that made his white eyes pop out. He'd traded his bloody butcher's apron for a suit that strained around his considerable-sized midsection. In his hands he carried a tray loaded with four bowls of potato soup.

"Dinner is served," he announced, putting a bowl in front of every place before he finally took the last remaining seat. "Come on, dig in!"

And that was the beginning of the meal. Four people slurping their soup and making small talk—though Charlotte, anticipating what was coming, only spoke when spoken to—while dancing around the exact reason that had brought them together.

The charade wasn't one that dragged on, however. It was after they had finished the soup course but before Mr. Sanders served the main meal when it happened, just like she dreaded it would.

Under Mr. Sanders' direction—Tommy's father cleared his throat and looked pointedly at his boy before Tommy caught on and jumped up—Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out something that he quickly palmed. She caught just a flicker of light reflecting off the candle's flame before Tommy was kneeling down before her and she realized that _this was really happening_.

The ring was simple: a golden band with a European-style cut diamond set in the center. Simple but elegant and Charlotte couldn't even begin to think about what it had cost Tommy—and what it would cost her.

She couldn't breathe. Focusing on the glint of the stone, she could almost pretend she was all alone and her life wasn't about to change forever. But she wasn't and it was and when Tommy began to speak, his voice echoed in her head.

He had a whole speech prepared and while his voice started out shaky, he quickly got control of himself and the words flowed out smoothly. Tommy's voice was soft and sweet and he always knew just the right things to say. He spoke of how many years their family's had known each other and how a little girl with hair as golden as the sun always brightened his day. He told her how he'd pined after her for so long, waiting for the right moment to ask her hand of her father. Tommy even talked about the day she moved back to Brooklyn at the end of spring and how he knew the moment was soon.

And he told her that he loved her. It was all Charlotte could do to keep herself from bolting from the room. To be kissed by one young man and have another confess his love for her, it was too much. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and knew she had gone scarlet. And, yet, Tommy kept going, never once faltering, his earnestness making Charlotte's heart ache that she couldn't say she felt exactly the same way for him.

"Charlotte Ann Woods," he continued and in that moment, of all things, Charlotte chose to focus on how in the world he could've remembered her full name, "I would be honored if you would take me as your husband. Will you be my wife?"

"I—" Charlotte could feel all their eyes on her. She swallowed and took a steadying breath before offering up a quaint smile that wouldn't stop quivering. What else could she say? "Yes, Tommy. Of course I will."

Tommy took her hand before Charlotte could even dream of yanking it back and, in that instant, the ring was suddenly on her finger. The promise was made.

She was _engaged_.

Mr. Sanders, who had risen from his chair to stand with Mr. Woods during the proposal, whooped and threw one of his beefy arms around Charlotte's father's shoulders; Mr. Woods almost sagged under the weight. "See, Johnny? What did I tell you? These two kids were made for each other!"

Tommy beamed. Inwardly, Charlotte cringed.

The mood that followed was one of jubilation. Tommy couldn't stop smiling. Mr. Woods regained some of his color and Mr. Sanders... the big, burly butcher was in control of the conversation, talking dates and invitations and who should be invited to his boy's wedding. Only Charlotte wasn't as happy as the others, though she thought she did a respectable job of hiding the fact.

The rest of the meal passed by in a blur. Charlotte fought through the roast beef they were served, eating enough not to be suspicious. At the end, Mr. Sanders brought out a celebratory cake for the two families to share, a beautiful cake with white icing and yellow flowers on top, but Charlotte couldn't take a single bite. Tommy's father made a joke about her wanting to fit into the gown Mr. Woods had tailored for her and, with a weak smile, she pretended to agree. It was easier than telling all of them that just the prospect of getting married was enough to make her stomach rebel.

She was aware that Tommy was still watching her closely. He seemed to glow from happiness right after she accepted his proposal; an air of befuddlement hovered over him then, as if he could sense that Charlotte wasn't as pleased as he was. Just because she didn't know her own feelings, that didn't mean she wanted to ruin his night. So she met his eyes and smiled warmly and tried not to feel too much like a snake when his eyes lit up and Tommy pushed his chair away from the table before standing up.

The next thing she knew, Tommy was right in front of her again, asking assuredly, "Char, would you like to take a walk with me?"

He held out his hand expectantly, without waiting for her reply; having already gotten his answer to the most important question and receiving her smile in return, Tommy was oblivious to Charlotte's hesitance. Knowing that there was nothing else she could do, Charlotte offered him her left hand. The weight of the ring on her finger was noticeable as Tommy gave her hand a heartfelt squeeze.

And she thought, Tommy's hands are a lot bigger than Spot's.

* * *

With a few hours left to curfew and Mrs. Kirby already retired to her rooms for the night, the ruckus in the third floor bedroom was almost unbearable. It had been a beautiful day, hot and sunny, and while the sun had given way to the moon and night had fallen, many of the boys weren't ready to take to their bunks just yet. The Beast's latest attack meant plenty of sales and pockets full of coins for all of them. In the newsboy's world, nothing was so liberating as a sensational story.

Spot was leaning against the wooden support of his bunk, observing the boys in the room as if somehow apart from them. And maybe he was. The recent news of the Beast excited them; Spot felt only fury. They had nothing more to worry about that night except if tomorrow's headlines would be just as good. With full bellies and a pleasant evening behind them, the Brooklyn boys laughed and joked and enjoyed themselves in a way that was eluding their leader.

He couldn't stop thinking about Red.

If Spot was being honest—and he prided himself on almost always telling the truth when it counted—he couldn't say he was so surprised by Red's reaction down at the dock. She wasn't like any of the other girls he ever knew and he probably went too far when he kissed her, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. Even now, a couple of hours removed from it all, Spot still didn't think what had happened was so bad. Except, of course, for how quickly Red turned on her heel and left him behind on the docks.

It was a damn good thing none of his boys saw the kiss—or, if they had, they were smart and keeping their mouth shut. The way she left Spot feeling when she ran off, the first wise-ass to crack a shot would've ended up face first into the East River.

He had a brain, and more than half of one. He didn't go after her right away. Red obviously needed time to think herself and Spot was willing to give her some. So he spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Red while alternately wondering where the Beast was lurking at any given moment. It was only that morning that he heard about the attack in Queens and he figured that had something to do with how daring he'd gotten with Red. Just being reminded that that monster was free on the streets made Spot reckless and protective. That was why he called on Red at her window and that was why he kept her in his sight at the docks.

And that was why he kissed her.

Spot scowled. He'd lost track of how many girls he'd kissed over the years and none of them—not even that pastor's daughter he met over by Plymouth Church—had looked at him with such wide, confused eyes before. But that was Red Woods all right. She wasn't just any other girl, not to him. He wouldn't have her any other way, either, but would it have killed her to admit that maybe she liked kissing him, too?

Pushing away from his bunk, his palms itchy and his nerves running on high, Spot strode across the room. Most of the boys looked up to watch him as he went but not one of them was brave enough to meet his unblinking stare when he turned it on them. It was too stifling in the bunkroom. He couldn't just stand there, the loud voices of the lodgers muffled in comparison to the thoughts running through his head—the most pressing one being a suspicion that maybe Red _hadn't_ wanted to be kissed by him, though, Spot remembered as his hands balled up at his side, he couldn't stop suspecting that the Beast was skulking ever closer to Brooklyn as he stood around inside.

Without worrying about being seen or getting caught, Spot slipped through the hallways and didn't relax his fists until he had made it out back. Once he had, he breathed in the humid summer air, held it in for a beat, and then let out a rush of air that held all of the anxieties and concerns a fearless newsboy like Spot Conlon wasn't allowed to have.

That was when he realized he wasn't the only one with the idea for an escape.

Scotch O'Reilly was sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw Spot standing there, he offered out the cigarette but Spot shook his head. Scotch shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He scooted over so that Spot could take a seat next to him on the stoop. When Spot didn't, choosing instead to tuck his hands under his suspender straps and stare out into the dark and empty alleyway, Scotch didn't argue with him. But, with his accent thick as ever, he asked, "What did Spider say?"

Spot was expecting that from Scotch ever since he discovered the Beast had attacked again. Spider Jones was the kid in charge over in Queens. A tall, gangly boy who was all arms and legs and only answered to the nickname of Spider, Spot knew him from his early days in Brooklyn. He very easily could've sent one of his birdies into Far Rockaway for answers but he hadn't and he didn't feel like explaining why—not even to his lieutenant—so he just said, "Nothing."

"Spider didn't know anything more about the Beast?"

"I didn't ask him."

"You didn't send a runner? That ain't like you, Spot." Scotch turned so that he was facing Spot, then cocked his head to his side as he eyed his leader. His cigarette hung on the edge of his lip before sudden realization dawned on him. "You're not still tearin' yourself up over that squinty kid, are ya?"

"What does it matter? The Beast killed another girl and findin' out the details ain't gonna stop him." Spot kept staring ahead of him. The brick wall was coated with dirt and grime and more than one of the bricks were cracked. Spot knew how that felt: to be strong on the outside but really crumbling. He shook his head. "I got more important things to worry about."

"Like Cinder?"

"I thought she ditched you," Spot asked with a rise of his eyebrow.

"Oh, aye. She did. But I haven't given up on her, just like she hasn't given up on you. And you..." Scotch reached out and smacked Spot in the ankle. "What's goin' on with you? You've been different."

"It's nothing."

"You can tell me anything, Spot. Ya know that, right?"

This time Spot looked down at Scotch. He was surprised to see Scotch looking up at him with something like admiration. "Yeah," he answered gruffly.

Scotch nodded. "But you won't."

"Let me have that." Spot took a drag off of Scotch's cigarette before handing it back. "If it had anything to do with Brooklyn, you'd be the first one I'd tell, Scotch."

"Just know I'm here. And if I ain't... well, you know where the Girls' lodgings are." Scotch winked as he stood up. "You comin' in?"

_Was_ he going back in?

As ever, the Beast was on Spot's mind just then. The murderer very rarely left it. Red was a welcome distraction, able to draw his attention to pleasanter things these last few weeks but the reality of the Beast hit Spot again that morning when he arrived at the distribution center to the headlines about that poor girl in Far Rockaway.

He was still out there. No matter how much Spot wanted him to go away, the Beast was still there. And if he wasn't going to disappear, then maybe Spot would find him first.

"No," he told Scotch, a steely glint to his cyan eyes that warned Scotch against arguing. "I think I'm gonna take a walk. Get an eye for the neighborhood."

"The Beast?" asked Scotch. The Beast was still on Scotch's mind, too—that, or he knew Spot well enough to figure what he was going to do and to know that there was nothing he could do or say to stop him.

"Something like that. I just... I can't shake the feeling that that bastard is closer than we think. Know what I mean?"

"As long as he don't go after anyone in Brooklyn." Scotch took a final drag off of his cigarette and then flicked it away. "We all got to eat, Spot."

And Spot knew exactly what Scotch meant. The Beast was good for business—everyone wanted to buy a paper these days. Shoot, all a newsie had to do was say the name—"The Beast is on the Loose!", "No sign of the Beast in Brooklyn!", "The Beast Attacks Again!"—and papers were flying out of his hands. But what did that matter? Spot would rather go a full week without supper and lodgings if it meant the Beast was gone.

The Beast wasn't going anywhere. The only question was where was he going to strike next?

After what happened with Squints and Bruno Wright and the Bronx, hhad refused to send a runner to Queens, but that didn't mean he didn't have any allies left. As Scotch tipped his hat and went back in for the night, Spot wondered if it wasn't too soon—or maybe too late—to take a walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and pay an overdue visit to Jack Kelly and his boys. The Bronx, Queens... the Beast was stalking closer and closer. If not Brooklyn, Manhattan had to be soon.

And if he just happened to go the long way around and pass Red's street on his way over, well, that was fine by him.


	9. Money Honey

Just his luck, Spot saw Red before she saw him.

She looked exactly the same as the first time they ever met, nearly ten years ago and, for a heartbeat, it was as if no time had passed at all. From the wavy blonde hair cascading down her shoulders to the red ribbon tied in a bow underneath, and the white skirt that offset her innocence... she was the Red of his memories, the Red of his fantasies, and she was real.

But probably not any more real than the young sandy-haired fellow standing right beside her.

It wasn't like he was caught off guard—he wasn't. Deep down, he might've even anticipated this. Red was a pretty girl with a big heart and the ability to see the best in people. Spot Conlon was proof of that. He was her _friend_ , wasn't he? He knew damn well that there was a whole other world she kept from him, of girlfriends and her father's doting affection and, it seemed, male callers.

Spot felt his lips curl.

He could've walked away. She hadn't noticed him, and neither had the young man walking alongside her. Spot could've continued on his way, gone on to the Brooklyn Bridge and made it to visit Jack and his boys in Manhattan before their curfew without Red ever knowing he discovered her little secret.

But he didn't. That wasn't who Spot Conlon was.

Instead, gripping the top of his cane lightly as if he wanted nothing more than to slip it out from under his suspender strap and use it as a bat, he stood and waited for Red to see him.

It didn't take long.

* * *

"It's lovely out tonight, perfect for a stroll. Don't you think so?"

Charlotte nodded. She was standing so close to Tommy, there was barely an inch separating them. He hadn't reached to take her hand again after they got out onto the street though she could feel the heat coming off of him; his hand hovered near her elbow, hesitant to hold onto her, eager to get the opportunity to help her across some particularly difficult cobbles.

He kept up a soothing stream of conversation as they went along. "The night sky is just perfect. Look up, look at the stars. The way they twinkle and shine. It's beautiful, Char, almost as beautiful as you are."

Her stomach dropped. It was like he pulled the rug out from under her feet, the way he slipped that last comment in there. Even she couldn't pretend she hadn't heard him. Without looking up at him—in case he could see the indecision and discomfort she couldn't hide—Charlotte murmured her thanks.

Tommy sighed in contentment.

Charlotte wished they were heading back to the apartments already.

It was too soon. She didn't know why, but she had expected him to give her some time to adjust after his proposal. To have him immediately ask her out for an unchaperoned, nighttime walk... it was too soon. There had never been a shortage of things to talk about with Tommy Sanders when he was simply her childhood friend. But with Tommy being her new fiancé, she found she was speechless. She had nothing to say to him at all. Just like how she had to run away from Spot at the docks after he kissed her, she wanted to leave Tommy's side and be alone.

 _Spot_... Charlotte gave her head a small shake. That was the last person she wanted on her mind just then. Thinking of Spot meant thinking about how she really felt about him—and thinking about how she still had to tell him about her engagement.

Tommy didn't seem to mind that Charlotte wasn't in a talkative mood. He carried the conversation for both of them, pointing out how quiet it was on the street—wisely, he didn't mention the reason why: the Beast's still too-recent attack—and how it made it all the more romantic. He told her about his father's plans for the upcoming wedding and went on to explain how it would be different for both of them once he ran the butcher's shop and Charlotte would tend to the apartment. It was right about the time he started discussing children that Charlotte, in a bid to keep from losing it, stopped listening to what he was saying.

Instead, unable to get her mind off of Spot, she ran countless conversations through her head, all of them having to do with her confession over the engagement.

None of them ended well.

She didn't notice that Tommy had stopped at first. If he hadn't reached out and laid the flat of his palm against her arm, Charlotte would've kept moving. His touch jerked her out of her silent reverie and, looking over at him questioningly, she saw that his attention was drawn to something in front of him. Feeling as if her heart had jumped up into her throat, Charlotte followed his direction and nearly fainted in surprise.

There was Spot Conlon. And from the look on his face, it was easy to tell that he'd been watching her long before she saw him standing there.

With only half of a block separating them, Tommy's light brown eyes were locked on Spot's cyan ones and, suddenly, it was as if Charlotte wasn't even there anymore—or maybe she was the only girl who existed at all. Tommy's arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him. The action was as possessive as it was natural, unwanted as it was, strangely enough, entirely appropriate. _Mine,_ it said. She only wished she could slap his arm away.

It was a tense stand-off, Spot on one end of the block, watching with his offensive stance—one hand on his hip, the other resting lightly on his cane—over at where Tommy held tightly onto Charlotte. Even if she could get away with rushing over to Spot, Tommy wasn't going to let her go so easily. And Spot obviously wouldn't want her, anyway.

Tommy was the first to speak and what he said made Charlotte's heart skip a beat: he called out to Spot by name.

Spot's eyebrow rose and he took a few steps forward, closing the gap a little more. "I think ya got me at a disadvantage, pal. See, I know Red there, and you know my name, but I ain't got half an idea who the hell _you_ are."

"I'm Thomas Sanders."

"Never heard of ya."

"Charlotte's never told you about me?" Tommy asked innocently.

"Why? She tell you about me?"

When Tommy didn't answer, Spot turned his gaze on her and it took all of Charlotte's inner strength not to quail underneath the fierceness of it; it was nothing like the way he watched her last, after their kiss. "Lookin' good, Red. Nice ribbon... it's a real good color for ya."

Charlotte's cheeks lit up, red as her ribbon, humiliated. She wasn't that innocent eight-year-old girl anymore. She knew exactly what Spot was saying—and, worse, she couldn't blame him.

If Tommy understood, he played it off like he didn't. With his free hand, he touched her loose hair lightly, stroking the end of the ribbon that was visible. "I've always liked it," he said softly.

She didn't care if it was noticeable. With a tiny jerk of her head, Charlotte moved away until Tommy's hand was petting the air. Across the way, she watched as Spot noticed her gesture with amusement and she wondered if, just maybe, this might work out.

"Spot, I know you must be wondering about..." Charlotte swallowed, unable to say the words.

"Please, I can explain," she tried again, her voice so full of pleading it made her feel like a foolish little girl. Even as she spoke, she could tell from his hardened expression that it was pointless—she could hear it in her own tone: Spot Conlon was stubborn and proud and there was nothing she could do or say that would ever make him understand what was going on between her and Tommy.

"Explain what? I figured it out long ago, I knew we could never really be _friends._ You're the daughter of a respectable tailor. My father was a good-for-nothing drunk. You have a life, my life is the streets. The most I could hope for was to sell you a paper in the afternoon. You ain't got nothing to explain."

"But I—"

"He's right, Char," Tommy added smugly. "It never would've worked."

His arm was still wrapped around her waist, keeping her right next to him. It was all she could do to turn and look up at him, clutching at his arm, as she cried out, "Tommy!"

"No, _Char_ ," and Spot used Tommy's nickname for her like a curse. But he was still smiling. "Your friend is right."

"Friend?" laughed Tommy. "I think you mean her fiancé."

"Fiancé?" That wiped the smile off of Spot's face. "You're gonna _marry_ this guy?"

Tommy intertwined his fingers with Charlotte's; she was too stunned to stop him. Lifting up their joined hands, he placed a featherlight kiss against her knuckles. "We're promised."

"I see..." While his right hand let go of his cane and clenched into a tight fist, just itching to strike that pleased grin off of Sanders' face, Spot brought his left hand up and plucked at the skin on his bottom lip. He could hardly believe it was only that afternoon that he dared kiss Red and there she was, out walking with another man.

With her fiancé!

His fingernail was jagged and sharp and it tore at the dry skin. It was a sharp pain, reviving almost, but it couldn't hold a candle to the emotions warring within him—emotions he wouldn't allow either of them to see. Spot licked at the cut and recognized the tangy taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. Nodding to himself, he said, "Yeah, yeah... I see how it is alright."

There was jealousy and anger and hurt at her betrayal all fighting within him and Spot didn't trust himself to hold back any of them for long. His lips were so used to the crooked pull that he smirked effortlessly though it was an empty gesture. The truth was in his eyes and the way he hadn't relaxed his fist just yet. Looking across the way at Red, she looked frightened. She pulled away enough from Sanders to prove she didn't invite in his touch, but she drew away from Spot's stare, her big brown eyes as big as a doe's.

She was afraid of him, he realized, and she damn well _should_ be.

But the girl had spunk. Spot recognized that—in that way, Red really hadn't changed at all. Just like the time she swung a sewing basket at a raving drunkard, Red untangled her hand from Tommy and clasped it to her chest, right over her heart. She was watching him imploringly.

"Please, Spot, I—" she started again, she tried to erase the tension that existed between them all, but she could get no farther. But it wasn't Tommy who cut her off.

It was Spot.

He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want her explanations—he'd already gotten it. She was _promised_ to another man. What else could she say?

"Save your breath," he snapped, unable to restrain himself. "Just... just stop already."

Red flinched as if he'd slapped her and, as a result, leaned in so that she was tucked under Tommy's arm. That made it worse for Spot and, where his anger had frozen in the split second when Red looked so frightened, it absolutely _burned_ to see the girl turn to Sanders for protection.

Spot sneered and jerked his chin. "Don't you worry 'bout me, 'cause I ain't got the time to be worryin' 'bout you, right. The Beast's still out there. I got my city to protect." Then, before he could stop himself, he brought his smarmy, cocky smirk back—a last slap in the face. Spot tipped his hat. "Evenin', miss. Congratulations on your, uh, your engagement."

And then, his smirk sliding into a scowl that better served to show how he really felt, Spot turned his back on her and refused to face Red again, not even when he heard her voice crack as she called his name one last time.

He had been a fool to trust her. To believe her. To want to keep her safe.

Let her _fiancé_ do that.

* * *

When Charlotte woke up later that night, she was surprised to discover that it was still dark out.

It had taken her quite some time to fall asleep as it was. After Spot left her shaken and hurting from the abrupt way he brushed her off, pushed her away, Charlotte begged Tommy to walk with her back home. Which he did, and though he didn't say another word as they went, he kept his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Tommy hadn't missed Spot's parting shot about the Beast, either.

Charlotte appreciated his quiet. It gave her time to think and she did, biting down on her lip and fiddling with a pulled thread from the top of her skirt; anything not to notice the way Tommy's fingers rested lightly on her hip. She didn't want to admit it but, while it was probably the worst possible way for Spot to discover her engagement, maybe it was for the best. It saved the inevitable lies, even if it did nothing for the terrible guilt that churned in her belly. The guilt and the shame and the cruel _uncertainty_.

It only got worse when Tommy stayed with her right up to her front door. Despite all the bravado he showed off in front of Spot, he was honestly uncertain and overly careful with her when they were left together alone, almost as if he thought of her as a China doll, fragile and easily broken. He moved slowly, taking his time so that, when he started to lean in, Charlotte was prepared. She managed to sidestep his intended kiss, his lips landing in her hair instead, then tried not to notice his keen disappointment as she quickly bid him goodnight and escaped to her bedroom.

Her father wasn't at his cot; Charlotte only assumed he was still celebrating the happy couple with Mr. Sanders. She was glad, too. Just then she couldn't face his heavy expectations, not now. Not while the flash of betrayal across Spot's tough face lingered in her mind's eye as if it was seared in her memory.

She had changed from her skirt and blouse into a simple nightdress before climbing into bed and praying that sleep would overtake her. It seemed an age until blissful unawareness swallowed her whole—but it hadn't lasted. Feeling as if she'd been ripped from a peaceful sleep so soon after she succumbed to it, Charlotte lay awake, breathing heavily as she waited. She didn't know what exactly it was that she waited for, maybe for her father to knock again or a summer thunder clap to echo around her or _something_ to explain why she woke up again so abruptly after finally falling asleep.

Then she heard it. A quick _tap_ that came against her window. Which was silly, really, since they were on the second floor and who could reach? And then Charlotte remembered how Spot got her attention earlier that morning, throwing a pebble up at the glass and, suddenly, she was sitting upright in bed.

 _Spot_. Her breath caught in her throat. He couldn't have come back, could he? Not after Tommy and their meeting in the street... right?

After nearly tripping over the hem of her quilt in her haste to climb out of the bed, Charlotte made her way to the window and, shielding her nightdress with the curtain, she peeked out into the street. Her heart thudding so loudly she could barely hear anything over the pounding, she saw that there _was_ someone standing directly below, right next to the lamppost.

At first she thought it really was Spot but something told her it couldn't be—and not only because of the way he left her alone with Tommy. This person was short, even shorter than Spot was, and he wore a coat that flapped behind him like an oversized pair of wings. The material swayed in the wind as he took aim again. A second later, the stone tapped against the window again and Charlotte couldn't deny that he was waiting for her answer.

She opened the window up and let her head stick out enough that he could see her face. She didn't want to yell in case it woke her father, and she called down softly, "Hello?"

The boy had picked up another stone, preparing to toss it, but he dropped his hand when she caught sight of her. Immediately, he removed his newsboy cap and held it to his chest. "Miss Red?"

"Yes." There was a waver to her voice. How did he know Spot's name for her? No one else used it but him... and with such respect, too. What was going on?

"It's Spot," he answered and Charlotte's fingers clenched the gauzy material of the curtain. "Please, miss, you've gotta come see him."

There was no hesitation. "I'll be right down."

She closed her window and drew the curtain back, then hurriedly reached for her skirt. There was something in the the boy's voice, an earnestness and a worry he hadn't been able to hide, and Charlotte found herself imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios that would require Spot sending one of his boys down to her apartment to retrieve her. She pulled her skirt on over her nightdress, but let the top serve as a blouse; her fingers trembling the way they were now, she doubted she could do up the buttons herself.

It was summer and hot in Brooklyn. During the days, Charlotte made do with a simple dress and, when it was really sunny, a straw hat rimmed with the same ribbon she used to keep her hair out of her face. But it was chilly out once the sun went down and she didn't know how long she would be gone. There was a red cape with a matching hood still stowed in her suitcase; she hadn't unpacked her winter clothes yet since, when they first moved to Brooklyn, she hardly believed they were staying. Ripping through her wardrobe, she grabbed the cape, slung it around her shoulders, placed the red hood over her sleep-tousled hair and fled down to the streets.

She didn't stop to wake up her father and tell him she was going. He would forbid it and she couldn't allow that. There was no time.

The newsboy was waiting at the doorway to the stairwell when she made it down. He was quite young, no more than twelve to her mind, but his eyes were older as if he'd seen things on the Brooklyn streets that no boy should have to see. Under the light of the gas lamp Charlotte could see the freckles that dotted his cheeks and the tufts of red hair that escaped from the hat he replaced on his head.

He was frowning. "You ready, miss?"

"Where is he?" She pulled her cape tighter around her. "Where's Spot?"

"I'm supposed to take you back with me to the lodging house. So, if you'll follow me."

Charlotte hadn't had any reason to return to the Boys' Working Home ever since reconciling with Spot. As far as she was aware, he kept her a secret as much as she had to Tommy and Madge. They met on the docks and walked the lengths of Brooklyn and, with the exception of that afternoon, she'd never been anywhere his newsboy world. But despite the years that had passed, she remembered the path and probably would've been able to find her way there without her young guide.

The boy was quiet, and his brow was furrowed as if he was thinking unpleasant thoughts. Charlotte didn't feel comfortable interrupting him and they spent most of the quick-paced walk in silence. It was only when she recognized that they were almost there that she let out the one question that was running through her mind:

"Did Spot send you here?"

"No," he answered, "Scotch did." And that was all he said.

Charlotte didn't know who Scotch was but she found out when she met the dark-haired, gangly newsie waiting for her at the open side door. Tall and thin, he was leaning against the doorjamb of the entrance. He was either guarding the door or waiting for someone; Charlotte suspected it was a little bit of both. As the newsboy led her forward, he jumped down from the stoop and didn't stop until he was standing right before Charlotte.

There was an unlit cigarette hanging off of his lip. When he spoke, it wobbled. "You this Red lass?"

"Yes," answered Red. "And you're Scotch?"

"Scotch O'Reilly, one and only." Using the lamplight from the open doorway, he looked her up and down but, despite appearing like he was made for it, she got the feeling he wasn't leering. Not yet, anyway. "Alright. Look, if anyone asks, the Society sent you over. You're a nurse, see, and you've come to take a peek at Spot."

"Is he sick?"

"If he ain't sick now, he'll sure as hell be come mornin'," scoffed Scotch. "Come on in. I'll show you the way." Waving for her to follow, he turned to go back in. He started inside, paused to allow the younger boy past him, ruffling his hair and murmuring, "Good job, Murphy," as the boy disappeared up the steps. It was only then that he noticed Red was still standing in Buckbees Alley, unmoving. "Whatcha waitin' for, lassie? Don't you want to tend to Spot?"

She shouldn't go in. It was against all decency, against all sense of propriety for a girl to walk inside the Working Boys' Home, especially so late at night. Scotch had lifted up the oil lamp, the flickering flames throwing shadows around, making his gaunt face sinister and his dark eyes wicked. She didn't know him—she didn't know if she could trust him. But if Spot needed her...

Gathering her skirt up in her hands, Red shuffled after Scotch. She tried not to flinch and be too frightened when the door to the alleyway closed shut behind her, though her head did whip around out of surprise.

Scotch was standing there, smirking at her in a way eerily similar to Spot; he had tucked his cigarette behind his ear so that he wouldn't lose it. "Move along. You don't want to be caught roamin' these halls, believe me."

Red got the feeling that Scotch only used the oil lamp for her benefit. He led her up the stairs that brought them to the first floor of the Home and went down the hall confidently, as if he knew where every creak in the floor was or any dip that might cause them to trip. He shielded the flame when they passed one particular door and could still navigate the path in the increased darkness. After they past it, he chuckled and muttered, "That was a close one. Last thing we need is Mrs. Kirby catchin' me bringin' Spot's, ahem, _friend_ in. Bless her soul, but the woman is against lettin' ladies in. Shame, really."

She'd been waiting for him to speak; she didn't want to be the one to make any sound that might get them in trouble. But now that he had, she started to ask him, "How did...", but her voice, already a mere whisper, simply trailed off. Maybe that was the bigger concern: that she didn't know _what_ she wanted to ask now that she could.

Scotch did. "Find you? Know anything about you?" He shrugged but a pleased smile played across his lips as he pushed open another door and ushered Red inside. "Don't tell Spot, but he ain't the only one with eyes and ears in Brooklyn. I guess you could say I got interested when he handed Cinder over to me so easily. Now, come on. Just up these stairs now."

Red had frozen on the landing. "Cinder?"

The loathing expression, the gleaming green-yellow eyes and sneer... Madge's Cinder? Was that what Scotch was saying, that Spot knew her too? Her heart thudded then slowed as if it was being squeezed. Which was silly, really—she'd just sprung her new fiancé on Spot. What should it matter to her that he was with other girls? Especially _that_ girl?

But it did. It _did_ matter. And that only made things worse.

"Aye, and I ain't surprised you don't know about Cinder Harrow. You see, she was Spot's good time for awhile, but of course that was 'til you showed up." He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "Don't mind my sayin' so, lassie, but I wouldn't say no to tradin' up meself if I didn't know that Spot would stick that slingshot of his so far up my bum that I'd be burpin' woodchips for just _talkin'_ to you."

His words, crass and colorful as they were, had the effect of making Red go, well, red. For some reason that made Scotch take a step or two up and away from her. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "So, uh, if you'll be as good not to mention this to him..."

"It'll be our secret," Red promised.

Scotch's relief was palpable; his rubber band-body relaxed and he moved fluidly up the rest of the stairs. After a second, Red started up after him.

"Spot's a big one for secrets," he confessed when she joined him on the next landing before leading her out into another dark, empty hall. "It took me ages just to know he was walkin' 'round town with you but, well, I guess I must've known for sure right about when he brought you to the docks this very morning. I've expected it for weeks, though, but you was always a mystery. I think he liked it like that, and I only got a hint of you at all the other night. Nothin' much," he added when Red looked frightened, worried about what Scotch could've found out, "just your name and where you stayed. Enough that I was able to get you tonight when... ah, but here we are, I'm sure you'll be findin' out on your own now."

Red eyed the door, biting down on her bottom lip. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea, going into that room. "He's in there?"

"Aye."

She took a deep breath, knowing that she would never forgive herself if she didn't go to Spot when he needed her, and let herself into the room before she decided against it.

It was larger room than she expected, considering there were three or four bunks inside and it wasn't cramped. A pair of oil lamps were positioned in the far corners, placed up high so that there was no chance of anyone knocking into them and starting a fire during the night. It smelled different from the rest of the Home, a fresh scent that covered up another, less pleasing one, almost like a hospital room. Red wrinkled her nose. It smelled like sickness.

And Scotch was right, too. Spot _was_ in the room. Sitting on the farthest cot, his boots on the floor and his head hanging down, Red couldn't tell if he was still awake or if had fallen asleep in such a strange position but, as soon as the door closed behind her, his head shot up and he was immediately on his feet. He took one look at her, wordlessly daring her to come closer. Red couldn't, so he made the first move. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, he was _right there_.

Spot didn't stumble and he didn't stagger, but the instant he was before her, she knew.

He wasn't sick.

He was _drunk_.

The whiskey on his breath, the rank odor of the liquor coming off of him in waves, it was all too telling. Red's father wasn't a drinking man, though he wouldn't say no to a glass of wine or maybe an ale with Mr. Sanders, but he'd never come home like this. Part of her wondered how Spot had made it back to his lodgings in such a state, while the other wondered how he had moved so darn fast.

Spot loomed over her, his eyes wide and staring. Up close, Red could see they were glazed, rimmed with red, but there was a lucidity in their cyan depths that made her shiver. There was a _hunger_. Standing on his toes so that he was taller, Spot was watching her unblinkingly, staring like a predator about to devour his prey.

Red let out a weak chuckle that did nothing to cover up her discomfort. "My, my, what big eyes you have."

It wasn't the drunken slur she expected, but a mild snarl under his breath that made her shake. "All the better to see you with, my dear."

"Spot," she said firmly after she recovered herself, "you're drunk. You shouldn't be standing. You must go back to sleep."

The moment passed and, when he looked away, he stumbled. To keep him from falling, Red put her shoulder up against his side, helping him back towards the small cot, wondering why none of his boys were helping _her_. And then she knew why. Why Scotch left her alone at the door, why it shut so solemnly behind her... why he had even sent for her in the first place: they blamed her for his state.

And they were right.

"Sleep? Ha!" Spot's scornful laugh was a rush of hot air in her face and she nearly stumbled herself, the stink of stale whiskey so strong. "I'll sleep when I'm _dead_."

"Now, now, " Red soothed, "that's just the drink talking."

"No."

"Don't be stubborn, Spot. Here, why don't you climb back into bed?"

For a moment Red suspected that Spot wouldn't listen, that he would argue with her and insist he was fine. And maybe he would've since he opened his mouth to say something—and she doubted it would be pleasant—but then he blinked, looked her dead in the face, and closed his mouth. Pulling away from Red, he slumped down on the edge of the cot. He stiffened when she tried to guide him back against the sheets, though he didn't fight her.

He didn't say another word to her, either. Not as she attempted to undo the knotted up laces on his shoes and, failing, decided to leave them on his feet. He only moaned as Red helped him out of his suspenders, leaving them to hang at his sides before she made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. By then Spot was leaning forward, his body limp, and she thought sleep might've taken him. Feeling more confident, she went to remove his checkered shirt—but when she lifted the hem of his shirt out of his trousers, revealing an undershirt stained with... _something_ , she felt her shakes return.

Dark splatters stained the side and Red was almost willing to believe it was dirt if it wasn't for the splash of brown that colored Spot's front. Down to his belly, a splash that was as large as a brick, his undershirt was crusty and stiff where the blood must've dried.

Because that's what it was.

"Blood _,"_ she whispered, gasping at the realization.

Spot's eyes were still closed. Leaning forward, his forehead slumped against Red's hip, he made no sign that he heard her at all.

Her fingers were hesitant but she willed them strong as she leaned over and reached for the edge of his undershirt. She had to look. Spot put up no fight, either. Maybe he had listened to her after all. A small gurgle escaped his open mouth, his head lolling, and Red helped ease him on his back before she finished pulling his undershirt up high enough to reveal his torso.

The relief that followed was swift, even if it was short-lived: there was no injury. No cut, no mark, nothing at all to explain all that blood. Red tugged Spot's shirt back down, just in case, but the blood was still there. How had it gotten there? Where did it come from?

Why was there so much of it?

Red was queasy; it was like she had swallowed a pile of rocks, her stomach felt so heavy. She couldn't look at the blood anymore. Grabbing the blanket that lay crumpled and forgotten at the foot of the bed, she covered up Spot, fussing with the blanket until only his head and his right hand were free. Then, because there wasn't anything else for her to do now that Spot was sleeping for good, she backed away from the cot—

—except Spot wasn't sleeping. Even though his eyes stayed close, and his voice was huskier than it had been, he was very much awake as he called out to Red, "Don't go."

She froze.

"Stay with me."

"Spot, I—"

"Red," he murmured, "please."

And Red found she couldn't leave. Though every part of her insisted that she shouldn't stay, that Spot stumbling on her and Tommy was the best thing that could've happened after their mistake on the docks that afternoon, Red's resolve weakened at the way he called her name and said _please._

Moving slowly, dragging her heels against the floor of the quarantine room, Red approached Spot's bedside again, careful not to disturb the deliberately placed blanket, desperate not to look at the blood that covered his shirt. Rearranging her skirt underneath her, she sank to the floor and vowed to herself that that was where she would stay. And when Spot reached one of his clammy hands over the edge, reaching for her, she grasped it tightly between both of hers and held on as if their very lives depended on it.


	10. Say Hello to Goodbye

Even after an evening chugging back more whiskeys than he could count, Spot woke up before the sun. It was still dark despite the flickering flames of the dying oil lamps, but the sky was lightening, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before dawn bloomed over Brooklyn and it was time to get up and beat the circulation bell. It took him a second to recognize that he wasn't in his regular bunk and then another before he noticed he was in the rooms for quarantine.

Spot swallowed his groan and pounded his head angrily against his pillow. Damn Scotch, he cursed, digging his fists against his eyelids, doing his best to block out the morning light. Because only Scotch O'Reilly would think putting him in the Cosy after a night on the town was a good idea—even when Spot would rather have slept the night off in Buckbees Alley than sleep one night in a sick boy's bed under Mrs. Kirby's watch.

And Mrs. Kirby... if Mrs. Kirby found out he was so far gone that Spot's second stuck him in quarantine, she'd have his head. Then again, if the old matron was in any state to catch him coming in drunk, Spot never would've been let in through the back door in the first place.

What happened last night?

His mouth was so dry, he must have been munching on cotton while he was passed out. Spot tried to work up some spit, anything to wash that terrible taste away, but he couldn't and he resigned himself to lukewarm coffee from the nuns at St. Vincent's when he finally pulled himself out of bed. His eyes were heavy and he kept rubbing away at them; scratchy and just as dry as his mouth, it felt like there was a bit of grit rolling around inside that only the most insistent prodding would ever get rid of. But that was the extent of his hangover. If it wasn't for his dry mouth and his dry eyes, Spot might not have realized he'd gotten so drunk at all.

Except he had. That much was damn well obvious. Spot could smell the stale whiskey on his shirt and wondered how much he'd gotten in his mouth considering his clothes were fairly covered themselves. He stopped rubbing his eyes and, while the spots and flashes and specks danced in front of them, he thought about what could've happened to him last night that landed him in the Cosy. Refusing to look back any further than his arrival at the pub, he soon discovered that there was nothing there, only big, fuzzy blanks that involved a short temper, a big tab and as many whiskeys as Charlie the bartender was willing to pour out.

Oh, well. Better off that way, he figured. Some things were meant to be forgotten.

Swallowing a couple of times to get his mouth working, Spot knew he couldn't lay about any longer. He had to get up, if only because it wouldn't do if he wasn't standing at the gate as his boys bought his papers. No matter what, the news went on and newsboys had to sell papes. So he stretched and he was just about ready to climb out of the tight bunk when his hand reached out and accidentally brushed against a body lying next to him—

—and he suddenly understood that he wasn't alone.

His first instinct was to keep his abruptly alert eyes on the ceiling while he tried to force himself to work out what sort of mess he'd gotten into last night. If he pushed it—and he did, his pulse racing as he willed himself to remember—he could make out what had happened before there wasn't anything left to remember. Most of all, he remembered the anger and betrayal at finding out that Red was promised to be married to another man—and he remembered stopping in the first pub he came to to do his best to forget about it all. Red, the Beast's attack in Far Rockaway, all of it.

One thing for sure, he never made it to Manhattan.

Ah, hell. Spot closed his eyes as the liquor from last night threatened to make a reappearance. He wasn't so desperate that he... he...

Quirking one tired eye open, Spot slowly turned to his right. But instead of the thick black hair he was dreading, he found wavy blonde hair waiting to greet him. He inhaled sharply, catching the slight scent of sugar and a sweet floral perfume that reminded him of only one person.

But he couldn't believe it.

Stubbornly, he wouldn't.

Red.

Her face was turned away from him but there was no way it could be anyone else. Loose blonde waves settled in a pool on the pillow; underneath, just visible on the edge, was the red ribbon that Red always wore. She was snuffling in her sleep, content and safe beside him, and Spot fought to remember how she could've ended up there. Could he really have gotten that drunk?

But Spot couldn't remember. The last time he saw her, Red was on the arm of some smarmy bastard called Sanders—

—there was no denying that she wasn't with Sanders right then.

Reaching out slowly, his fingers ghosted over her hair; he didn't want to touch her in case he disturbed her. Spot wasn't quite sure what Red was doing in his bed and he doubted it was her idea. How could it be? She was engaged... why was she with him now? Waking up in the Cosy on his own, he could understand that—his head buzzed enough and there were blanks that only followed an evening on the bottle. But with Red... he almost wanted to pinch himself in case he was dreaming.

If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

With the exception of the slingshot lesson and the quick kiss that followed—that he hadn't forgotten—this was the closest Spot had been to Red since they met again. There were no pretenses in that moment, no walls put up between them, none of that friends business to keep them apart. From the second he found her again, Spot had been denying a spark that he'd finally just given in to on the docks when he kissed her and she kissed him back.

Red kissed him back when she had her fiancé waiting for her back at home. He was unaware, but she had to have known and Spot wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was damn furious, that was for sure, a fool who let a young woman wrap him around her finger—he would've done anything for Red, still would, and how did she repay him? By flaunting her engagement to a boy who could give her everything Spot couldn't.

Drawing back his hand with a start, a certainty that made his stomach turn hit him, like a fist to the jaw. He couldn't have her. Spot didn't have to have money like Sanders did to use his brains, and he knew very well that Red wasn't his, not really.

And yet, something told him that, at least while she slept innocently in his bed, she could be.

He couldn't stay there anymore, that was clear. The temptation was just too strong and, if there was one thing Spot would never do, it was take advantage of anyone who didn't deserve it—especially Red. Putting space between them, Spot gently climbed out of his side of the bed.

His suspenders were hanging at his side and his checkered shirt was flapping open but he ignored his state of being half-dressed as he tiptoed around the bed's end. The fact that he slept in his boots and his trousers despite the stuffy heat of a New York summer night was enough to banish any lingering doubts about what he might've done last night, even if his shirt was undone. He couldn't remember getting back to the Home after his trip to the local tavern, let alone anything that happened after, but he figured he had Red to thank for his shirt looking that way. Swallowing back a blossoming smirk, Spot decided he liked the idea that Red had tried to undress him.

At least, he hoped it had been Red. If Scotch had something to do with it... well, he was already gunning after his lieutenant for the stunt he pulled, sticking Spot in the Cosy. A little extra soaking would go a long way with reminding Scotch who was still the leader there in Brooklyn.

Without moving closer than arms-length, Spot looked down at Red. And it was Red—that much was for certain. Red lips, pale eyelids and dark eyelashes that kissed her cheeks, she was turned on her side, sleeping away as if she had no idea he was standing right there.

Her right hand was folded underneath her cheek, a makeshift pillow. But her left... Red's left hand was curled into a loose fist just under her chin. She had long, slender fingers covered in scars and calluses; Spot thought he knew her hands well enough by then and there was something on her ring finger that he had never seen before. He leaned in just a little, trying to get a better look when he suddenly realized what it was Red wore:an engagement ring. Just then, just as the sun started to rise, a stray beam straggled in through the room and landed on the golden band, making it sparkle and shine.

It was mocking him.

Defiant and angry, Spot moved away from the bed purposefully, nearly tripping on the red cape strewn on the floor as his boots stepped lightly over it. He blinked, his eyes heavy and sad, and looked everywhere and anywhere than where she lay, sleeping in his bed while she wore another man's ring.

It was a tease, having Red so close when he couldn't really have her. She wasn't his to have. Her Tommy was right—it never would've worked between them. They were too different. She was too good for him, Spot huffed, and he scowled at her angelic expression. Anger writhed inside of him, desperate to escape; he longed to lash out at someone, anyone, but it wouldn't be the girl lying there, slumbering peacefully in his bed.

Glancing down, a flash of red—Red's cape—caught Spot's eye again and he kicked it back to her and closer to the bed with the toe of his boot. He kept his eyes trained downwards and that was when he first noticed the reddish-brown stains on his undershirt. A strange emotion, similar enough to anger but with a sour edge flared up within him; after a terse heartbeat, he recognized it as fear—and Spot Conlon was never afraid.

Blood. Why was he covered in blood?

His checkered shirt was still hanging open and he roughly did up the bottom few buttons if only to keep the bloody undershirt hidden. There was no sign of his cane or his slingshot and he decided the first thing he was going to do was hunt Scotch down at the Girls' Home. For his sake, Spot hoped the Irish boy had his weapons or else he might just turn to his fists to knock some sense into Scotch. The Cosy, Red, no sling, no cane... the blood.

And no memory of what the hell had happened last night at all.

As far as he was concerned, it was all Scotch O'Reilly's fault.

With a sinking stomach that made his uncharacteristic fearfulness curdle, Spot realized that this was just like the night Squints went missing. He wanted to forget Red that night, too, and with a bellyful of whiskey and water, he'd managed it then—just like he managed it last night. Squints had disappeared that fateful day in late June, leaving only his mangled glasses and a blood splattered grey jacket behind.

This time, the blood was on him.

His fingers tensed and were barely usable as he finished buttoning up his shirt and tucked the hem in his trousers. Spot slipped his suspenders back on over his shoulders and, after looking around and finding his hat set on a hook beneath one of the dying oil lamps, jammed it onto his head. He could still smell the whiskey on his clothes and knew he looked like hell but he had to get out of there. In that moment, he didn't trust himself to stay a minute longer.

After he blew out the two oil lamps so that no one would see the flickering shadows and think to look inside the quarantine room, Spot slipped right out of it. He never once looked behind him as he went.

He left Red sleeping alone in the Cosy because it was the safest place for her.

With those blanks in his memory and the blood all over his shirt, anywhere he wasn't was probably the safest place for her just then.

When Charlotte slowly began to stir later that morning, she woke up alone and absolutely disoriented.

The sun was in her eyes and she flinched, stunned, blinded by the light. That was the first clue that something was wrong. Her curtain was usually a good enough shield and why was the light shining in from the wrong direction?

Charlotte blinked away the light, fluttering her eyelids until she could keep them open without squinting in the bright morning sunshine. As soon as she could see, as soon as she saw the three other empty bunks that occupied the bunkroom and smelt the sterile, medicinal aroma of last night, it all came rushing back to her.

She wasn't at home at all. She was at the Brooklyn's Home for Working Boys. And, reaching out a shaky hand, she realized Spot was gone. Then, swallowing back an unladylike curse she'd picked up from Madge, Charlotte shot straight up in the bunk, her heart beating so loudly she could hardly hear herself think.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She certainly couldn't explain what she was doing lying in the bed. Charlotte distinctly remembered sitting at Spot's bedside, resting on her knees while holding his hand. And then... and then she'd removed her cape to cushion her knees—yes, there was her cape, right on the floor where she left it—and then... her brow wrinkled as she struggled to remember. She remembered shivering as the night wore on, and she'd yawned and fought to keep her eyes open, and suddenly Spot was pulling on her hand gently and she'd given in, given in for the warmth and given in just to keep Spot from being so angry at her.

And then she'd fallen asleep and hadn't woken up until right then. Spot must have slept off his drunkenness and slipped out as soon as he could; if his state last night was any indicator, he probably woke up as confused as Charlotte was feeling. She didn't blame him for sneaking out, even if she begrudged him for leaving her alone in his lodging house.

Well, she wouldn't be there for long, either.

Her hair had fallen loose in her sleep. Charlotte scooped up the ribbon that was lying abandoned on the pillow and hurriedly tied her hair back. The cape she had worn last night was still on the floor. She grabbed that next, wrapping it around her trembling shoulders, tucking her honey blonde hair under the hood.

One part of her wondered where Spot had gone and why he had left but that part was quickly overpowered by the startling realization that, for the first time in her life, she'd stayed out overnight without her father's permission. Her father! What would he say if he knew?

Would it be possible that she could make it back without him ever knowing?

Luck was on her side. After Charlotte peeked her head out into the hall and saw that it was empty, she quickly retraced the steps she had taken with Scotch last night until she was standing on the porch that led out into Buckbees Alley without ever being caught. She didn't linger once she was outside and, without even stopping to worry what the passersby might think, watching her flee from the Home, she started back for her father's apartment.

The August sun had already risen high in the sky but Charlotte refused to remove her cape. Underneath her nightdress was obviously a nightdress and her skirt was so dusty from the time she spent sitting on the floor that not even a quick beating with the flats of her palms did anything to knock the dirt away. She kept her hood pulled up, hiding her face; she couldn't bear anyone to meet her eye, as if they knew she'd spent the night in the Boys' Home.

It wasn't shame actually that she was experiencing, and there was no regret—how could she regret running to a friend in need? She would have done the same for Madge or even Tommy... if Tommy asked her to stay by his side, she'd be there. Charlotte felt she owed it to Spot to treat him the same, even if it meant her father refused to let her out of her room until she was married to Tommy and her tendency to wander would be her husband's responsibility.

Still, all those were thoughts she'd rather not think at the moment. The morning after, Charlotte still hadn't come to terms with her engagement to Tommy Sanders and she knew she had gotten off easy, confronting Spot the second time last night when he was drunk and probably hadn't remembered a word of it when he woke up again. And, of course, there was her father's reaction to consider...

Charlotte's main hope was that she could slip upstairs and pretend that she never left after the sun went down. As far as she knew, her father still hadn't been in when she left and maybe he hadn't checked on her when he finally turned in. Or, if she was really lucky, maybe he had spent the night down in the tailor shop and was entirely oblivious to her absence. She could sneak into her room, wash up, then spend the afternoon with Madge, telling her friend all about her strange experience following a red-haired boy called Murphy across Brooklyn. Oh, and about the engagement being made official too, she supposed.

A few minutes later, though, when Charlotte turned onto her street and found a fledgling crowd standing in front of Mr. Sanders' butcher shop, all of her hopes were dashed. Something had happened—something wasn't right. There were plenty of men, many which she had never seen before, a handful of police officers all gussied up in their street uniforms, all surrounding Mr. Sanders as the big butcher spoke.

And there, standing on the edge of the crowd and lost in a quiet conversation, were Mr. Woods and Tommy Sanders.

Her father saw her first—or maybe he was the only one who could recognize her in her red cape. His eyes widened behind his half-moon spectacles and his arms opened up, like he was inviting her into his embrace. But when he saw her, it wasn't the worry or the anger she expected to hear, but a flood of absolute relief that strangled his voice as he cried out, "Charlotte!"

One of the policemen turned to look when Mr. Woods called out to her, and Mr. Sanders patted another on his shoulder before moving to stand behind his son. Tommy didn't look behind him; like Charlotte's father, his eyes were drawn to her. For a heartbeat he watched her in surprise, a silly grin splitting his handsome face—but only for a heartbeat before it slid into a worried frown and his eyes darted away.

And that's when Charlotte knew for sure that something was wrong.

In a daze, Charlotte approached her father. "Papa, what—?"

Mr. Woods wrapped his arms around her, his bushy mustache tickling her cheek. She could feel dampness on her skin and wondered why. Was her father crying? "I was so worried for you," he murmured, and his voice was hoarse and gravelly. "When the police came with the news, and you were gone... oh lord, child, I didn't know what to think."

"News? What news?" When her father didn't answer, Charlotte slipped out of his arms. "Papa? What's going on here?"

"It's Madge, Char," murmured Tommy. "The police came about Madge."

Taking a step back, she looked from her father's distraught expression to Tommy's sorrow and felt as if the world was spinning out of her control. She stumbled in shock and another pair of strong arms steadied her, keeping her on her feet—she couldn't tell who was holding her up, only that they weren't letting her go, and Charlotte didn't care.

"Someone, anyone... please, tell me," she pleaded. "What happened to my friend?"

Mr. Woods was the one to take pity on his daughter. "They found her this morning, my girl. Your friend... Madge, she's gone."

And it was like the world was spinning out of control. Faces blurred, the worried murmurs of the voices all blended together like a swarm of summer bees buzzing in her ears. Her knees buckled and the hands supporting her shifted and then strengthened as she slipped.

"Char! Say something! Are you all right?"

It was Tommy who was standing right behind her; it was Tommy who was holding onto her, keeping her from falling to the dirt. Panic in his voice, his fingers bit into her skin as he held tightly to her. Madge was gone, his actions seemed to shout, but he wasn't going to lose her, too.

"Tommy, maybe you should bring her inside," suggested Mr. Woods. "My daughter... she's too delicate for such news."

She straightened up then, Tommy's insistence and Mr. Woods anxiousness recalling her, and she stubbornly shook Tommy's hands off her shoulders before he could start leading her in. Her father still looked like he expected Charlotte to succumb next but she wouldn't. She was stronger than that and she would prove it to them both. Swallowing back the hysteria that bubbled in her throat, she looked imploringly from one of the surrounding men to the next, carefully avoiding Mr. Woods. She wasn't going anywhere until she knew what had happened.

Her gaze settled on Tommy. Tilting her chin back, she looked up at him with questions in her eyes. "Tommy," she gasped, and her stomach heaved but still she pleaded, "please, you would tell me, wouldn't you? You believe I should know, don't you?"

He reached out to her again. There was no hesitance in his touch, but pure conviction as he placed his hand against the small of her back. It was a reassuring gesture, soothing as he patted her lightly, attempting to calm her. "Charlotte," he soothed, his voice soft, "you know I would tell you anything, but, well, maybe your father is right. I'm not so sure you'll enjoy anything I have to say."

"I'm not a little girl anymore. You're my fiancé, Tommy... please, tell me the truth."

Tommy brightened up a little at the words my fiancé. Exhaling softly, ignoring the way Mr. Woods softly shook his head, he said, "What is it you want to know?"

"Who did it? Who hurt Madge?"

The first question was the one Tommy had hoped she wouldn't ask. Not because he didn't have the answer—and he didn't—but because he knew that such a simple response would never satisfy Charlotte when she was in such a state. Still, he tried to explain: "The police, they don't know, but—"

"It's the Beast, isn't it?" Charlotte hadn't been reading the papers and listening to the rumors for these past few months without becoming as suspicious as the rest of Brooklyn. And, of course, it was only yesterday that Spot's unease over the murderous phantom brought them together at the docks in the first place. "That's why no one wants to tell me. You all think she's a victim of the Beast?"

"The police can't say for sure," Tommy admitted. "That's why they're here, Char, they want to know as much as we all do."

"You didn't answer my question, Tommy," accused Charlotte. "Do you think it's the Beast?"

"There's... let's just say there's enough similarities for the police to be concerned."

"But... I just don't understand. Madge never left the apartment, she never would've been out on the street. How could she... how could this have happened?" Her breath caught and she hiccuped, but pushed past it as if the sound had never escaped from her. "There must be some mistake. The Beast," and she spat out the name as if damning him to the hottest of hellfires, "he couldn't have gotten Madge!"

Tommy continued to rub her back soothingly, trying in vain to keep her from losing it; it wasn't working. He hesitated, as if he was questioning Charlotte's certainty that she wanted to hear what he had to say, but she kept her wide brown eyes on him and he folded. "Mrs. Pierce told us that Madge met with a boy in red suspenders last night. He came to see her, he needed her to come with him. They were going to look after a friend—I thought... we thought you were gone, too, we thought they were looking for you."

Charlotte felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her. "A boy in red suspenders?" she gasped out. "But how... how did Mrs. Pierce know?"

That question stumped Tommy. That, or he no longer could pretend to be unaffected by Madge's death or the way it was making Charlotte act. His fingers stopped working and they lingered at the hem of her cape for a breath before he reluctantly pulled away.

Mr. Sanders spoke up next. "She was at the table sharing a cup of tea with Madge. That's how she saw the boy."

Charlotte whirled on the man. "Did she recognize him?" she demanded. "Does she know who it could be?"

"The old girl's eyes aren't as good as they used to be. All she remembers is the red suspenders." Mr. Sanders seemed smaller, somehow, deflated. Older. "Are you sure you're all right, Charlotte?" He turned to look at Mr. Woods. "Johnny? Shouldn't she stay inside while we, ahem, finish talking things through?"

Mr. Woods didn't have an answer for his old friend, and Charlotte was already on to her next thought. Her mind was the one that was spinning now, images of her friend's cheeky smile and bright eyes running rampantly before she forcibly shoved them aside. She didn't want to think about Madge. She didn't want to have to process what had been said. But she focused on the red suspenders. It couldn't be... could it?

Traitorous thoughts ran right to Spot, Spot Conlon and the blood that covered him and the relief that washed over her when she discovered it wasn't his. She barely wondered then who it belonged to, but whose was it? Was it Madge's?

It couldn't be Madge's—

Tommy seemed to know exactly where her thoughts were at. Impulsively, he took her hands and gave them a quick, reassuring squeeze. "The police don't think the boy in the suspenders could have anything to do with Madge's accident," he confessed, the words tumbling out despite the warning look his father gave him. "They think... oh, they think the Beast must've attacked when she was walking back alone."

That didn't make her feel any better. In fact, it only made her understand what Tommy would never come at and say straight to her. Madge was out looking for her friend, out looking with a boy in red suspenders... Madge was out looking for Charlotte, wasn't she?

And now... and now she was gone.

Charlotte's stomach tightened and bile rose up in her throat. Jerking it back from Tommy, she rose her hand to her mouth in a sorry attempt to keep from getting sick and just managed it. But her knees were even weaker and Tommy's words swam around her in her ears, stinging and biting at her like the summer flies.

She couldn't stay there anymore, with the police and the local men and the pity and curiosity in their eyes. She had to get away. She had to run away.

"Excuse me," she whispered as she pushed past her father, tripping up the stairs in her haste to escape. She heard Mr. Woods as he called out to her and then Tommy's muted whispers that kept the man from following after his daughter. If it wasn't for all that she had just been told, Charlotte might've been grateful for Tommy's intervention.

But not then.

Charlotte retreated to her bedroom, barely managing to hold back the tears that came. Her stomach was in knots, her heart heavy and she refused to believe what she'd just been told. Madge couldn't be gone. She couldn't be hurt. She couldn't—

The torrent of tears were hot and blinding. She saw nothing through their glaze as she groped her way toward her battered sewing desk. There were scraps of fabric, broken needles and empty spools of thread littering the top but she brushed them aside with the flat of her palm. She was looking for a crumpled bit of cloth and she sniffed loudly when she found it, bringing her handkerchief up to her eyes.

Furiously wiping her tears away, it took a brief moment before Charlotte could see again—and what she did see made her feel like her insides had been turned to ice, empty and achy and cold. The handkerchief had once been white but was no longer; red, bright, shocking red, red smears that colored her handkerchief and twisted her belly. Blood on her mind, the blood that covered Spot and Madge's sudden bloody death, the red spooked her until she recognized it for what it was: Madge's trademark lipstick. Madge loved to leave lipstick kisses on Charlotte's cheeks; Charlotte would always wipe her cheek clean with her hankie.

And that's when the truth of the matter hit her: Madge would never kiss her cheek again.

Madge would never do anything again.

Scrunching the handkerchief tight in her fist, Charlotte Woods gave into her grief at last and, folding in on herself and crumpling like a heap in the chair at her sewing desk, she let the sobs come.


	11. Never Surrender

Madge Harris was buried by the end of the week. Though the police came around often at first, asking questions and promising their best, it was soon very clear that they were no closer to catching her killer than they were to catching the Beast. Though no one came out and said it, Charlotte suspected that was simply because the two were one and the same.

Mr. Sanders had enough money and pull in that part of the city to keep the reporters quiet. No mention of Madge being the most recent victim of the Beast came out in the news, though even Brooklyn's prominent butcher and a free cut of beef all around couldn't keep Marjorie Harris' murder from the papers. The way he argued it—the way the reporters and even the police followed—there were enough hints that this could've been just another accident: Madge was a good girl, she was seen out with a young man, she promised her grandmother she would be right back. No one believed she could've been in any situation where the Beast might've gotten to her, so they said out loud that the stab wounds she suffered were just coincidental.

But each and every one of them was thinking it was the Beast, Charlotte most of all.

She went straight from planning a funeral into a wedding; Charlotte didn't know which one was harder. Once she and Mr. Sanders—who graciously paid for Madge's funeral—had helped Mrs. Pierce bury her granddaughter, Charlotte threw herself into planning her wedding to Tommy. They would be married next summer—a June wedding with a June bride—so there was plenty of time, but she felt as if she owed Madge this. Madge had been so looking forward to the event and, by looking forward to it herself, Charlotte made up for missing Madge.

It also gave her something to focus on that wasn't Spot Conlon. Which was hard, since every time she closed her eyes, she saw him hovering over her, blood on his shirt and anger in every line of his hard face; her secret suspicions came to life in the moment she discovered that Madge had died... and then there were the red suspenders. She didn't see Spot the way he was their last day together on the docks, confident and caring and protective. No, he was vicious and bitter and she tried to forget about him, only to think about him constantly.

She couldn't forget, though she felt she owed it to Tommy and to Madge's memory to try. But Spot was making it difficult by not forgetting her.

He wasn't giving up on her as easily as she would've hoped, considering all that had happened in such a short span of time: the Beast's attack in Queens, that mistake of a kiss, Charlotte and Tommy's engagement, Spot's discovery of that fact, Madge's death and, quite possibly, what was the second attack by the Beast. It was no surprise when Charlotte readily agreed with her father's assessment that she stay in right after what happened to Madge—she couldn't imagine leaving the safety of the apartment, let alone going to the docks.

And Spot didn't dare come down to her apartment, either. She wasn't sure why, if it was her, or Tommy maybe, or even the cops that seemed to have plenty of whispered conversations in front of the butcher's shop, but there was no sign of Spot. For the first couple of days following Madge's murder he kept away; whether it was pride or anger or even guilt, Charlotte didn't know, but she was grateful not to have to face him.

Spot wasn't there but there was a different newsie standing on the corner beneath her bedroom window every time she dared to peek outside. He had to put them up to it, had to be using them to spy on her, and after a few days, she stopped looking down on them at all.

Spot didn't come himself but he was having her watched.

She wondered if he read about Madge in the paper and put two and two together that the Beast had finally struck in Brooklyn. He was smart enough to figure it out. And then she feared that he hadn't read anything, but that he knew regardless. Just the thought made Charlotte tremble.

All that blood...

She started inviting Tommy to sit with her in her small kitchen before he started his evening shift at his father's shop. Having finally resigned herself to marrying him, Charlotte decided she should start seeing Tommy Sanders as her future husband rather than just her childhood friend. It was obvious that Tommy was pleased when she searched him out and with a grin, he started to visit with her every morning and some afternoons but, ever the gentleman, he didn't push her any farther than she was prepared to go. They only spoke of their upcoming nuptials in regards to the dress her father had made and the lavish meal his father planned on paying for. Beyond that, Tommy told her stories about working in the butcher's shop and Charlotte responded with tales of all the places she'd lived in over the years. It was the only thing she could really add to the conversation.

They never spoke of Madge or Spot, and for that Charlotte was grateful. Every now and then she caught Tommy watching her carefully as if he expected her to crumble and break. The last thing she wanted to do was prove him right and, since just the memory of Madge made her tear up—and thinking of Spot made her ache—it was safer all around to dance around that fateful night.

The night when everything change. The night when Tommy asked Charlotte for her hand and she accepted his proposal. The night when Charlotte snuck out and, whether she meant to or not, spent the night with Spot. The night when Madge Harris went looking for Charlotte and ended up losing her life.

Charlotte wasn't the only one taking the loss hard: Mrs. Pierce fell even more ill shortly following Madge's death. After Tommy left for the afternoon, Charlotte would sit with the elderly woman, reading to her from the yellowing newspapers, finding the more pleasant articles to cheer Mrs. Pierce up. With the Beast striking so close, and with Charlotte specifically avoiding newsies of all sorts, she had to rely on the older papers before eventually making up peaceful stories herself. She never once asked the woman about the boy in the red suspenders. She didn't want to make Mrs. Pierce remember, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer for herself.

In that way, Charlotte liked to think, when Mrs. Pierce passed away two weeks to the day Madge's body was found, that she helped ease the woman's pain. At very least, the afternoon baking Charlotte undertook in her loneliness kept Madge's grandmother up to her elbow in sweets, though not even the stickiest of sticky buns was enough to quell the shock at discovering her beloved granddaughter had been slaughtered on the streets below the one time Mrs. Pierce had given in and given Madge permission to go out to look for a friend.

Mrs. Pierce blamed herself, not the boy in the red suspenders or even the phantom Beast. In the end, it wasn't her headaches or her age that killed her—it was her guilt. Charlotte silently added the poor old woman to the list of good victims who fell prey to a very bad man.

Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she would be next. And sometimes she wished she would.

No one moved into their apartment or emptied it out. Madge's family never came upon the news of her death and Charlotte didn't know who to tell when Mrs. Pierce died. Mr. Sanders paid for Mrs. Pierce's funeral next, a few days break for Charlotte in the wedding plans; from talking to the butcher, she understood he wasn't in any hurry to find a new tenant. From talking to Tommy, she understood that that would be their apartment to share once they were married.

Tommy was different those days. Unlike her father, he stopped insisting she stay in when he wasn't with her. Even he could see that Charlotte wasn't inclined to leave her apartment anymore, and if she did, he wouldn't have tried to stop her anyway. If it was a contest between him and Spot—as he obviously believed and she pretended not to notice—then he was the victor. He'd won. He had Charlotte. And Charlotte... she found she didn't care regardless. As long as he kept her safe from Spot.

The afternoons they spent together, while awkward at first, soon became content and cozy. It wasn't anything too different from the lunches she shared with Tommy when Madge was still with them, except now Charlotte could finally see what Madge had told her she was blind to all along. The way Tommy always seemed to catch her eye, no matter where she was looking. The way he found any excuse to touch her hand or push back a loose strand of hair that fell from her red ribbon. The way a simple smile of gratitude on her end had him lit up like a firecracker. Tommy didn't tell her again how much he loved her—not like he did the night of the proposal—but he didn't have to. She could see it for herself now.

That wasn't the only thing that had changed. In the transformation from being lifelong family friends to a promised couple, Charlotte was learning about Tommy Sanders. He'd always seemed so much older but the three years didn't seem as much now; he didn't rush her, having already agreed that a wedding next June would be perfect. Until then, he was content to sit with Charlotte, sometimes watching her bake, and sometimes teaching her about his trade.

And sometimes, when they sat together at the small two person table in the kitchen, he taught her how to play games.

Tommy wasn't big on playing cards, though he shuffled them with such dexterity and skill that he left Charlotte envious; he spent one whole afternoon trying to show her how, but her hands were as clumsy with the cards as her fingers were with a needle and she gave up with a huff and a dark look at the deck. He preferred to play marbles or jacks—games he played with Charlotte once upon a time, whenever the Sanders family visited the Woodses, wherever they were living at the time—but after Mr. Woods stepped on a jack and the metal spike pierced his heel, Tommy settled on teaching Charlotte on his battered, old board game sets.

Chess had too many rules and frustrated Charlotte easily. Dominoes were fun even if they were more like playing cards, but she didn't think they were playing it right; when she thought of pips, she thought of oranges, not dominoes. But checkers... checkers she could just about play without appearing foolish—even if she never won.

"One, two, three," Tommy counted out loud one afternoon, jumping his red piece until he was planted in an opening on Charlotte's end of the board. He grinned over at her. "King me, please."

Charlotte blinked in surprise. She hadn't seen that move coming. "That was impressive," she told him, placing one of her captured pieces on top of Tommy's waiting one, "though I should've been expecting it, I think, seeing as how you've beaten me three times already today." A sore loser at the best of times when it came to Tommy's games, she worked to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "Where in the world did you learn to play this game?"

"A... a friend."

Tommy made a great display of straightening his new piece, making sure the two red ends were touching to create one crowned checker. His eyes were drawn down to the board and Charlotte got the distinct impression that he was suddenly avoiding her. And why? Despite all the time they spent together now, she wasn't so self-centered to believe she was his only friend, even though she didn't have many herself. It was good that he had other friends... so why didn't he think so?

"Have I met them?" she asked pleasantly, trying to make up for the bitterness.

Tommy glanced up then, sorrow in his eyes, and Charlotte knew the answer before he gave it—

"It was Madge, actually."

—she knew the answer, but it wasn't enough to protect her from the hurt she felt at hearing Madge's name.

"Oh." Her answer was small and feeble, a lump forming in her throat. It was all she could do to keep the tears from coming again.

Charlotte didn't know that Madge knew how to play checkers. She didn't know that Madge and Tommy were friends before she arrived in Brooklyn. She didn't know... well, was quite a lot she didn't know about Madge. And now she never would.

In order to avoid thinking about Madge—that was just about as easy as forgetting Spot Conlon—Charlotte picked one of her remaining black pieces at random and made a move. It was a silly move, one that opened up the whole board for Tommy, and though he hesitated, he made a few quick jumps in succession.

"Sorry," he murmured when it was clear the game was over, and he actually meant it. Charlotte doubted his apology had anything to do with the game, either.

"Don't be," she said, and chose to make it about the game. Because, either way, Tommy had nothing to be sorry over. "Madge... I didn't know she could teach anyone so well."

"It was a rough winter," Tommy told her, suddenly eager to explain. "We were snowed in a couple of times, and she had your temperament when it came to chess."

"I can only imagine." She tried to keep the soft sigh back and failed. Concern flashed across Tommy's face before an all too-wide grin showed off his sudden keenness.

"Here, why don't you be red this time? Maybe some of my luck will rub off on you."

Part of Charlotte wanted to argue that she'd been playing checkers with Tommy for days now and it certainly wasn't luck that kept him winning while the other part of her rebelled at the idea of taking the red pieces. Still, one look at his face and Charlotte couldn't say no. She swapped her black pieces for Tommy's red and began setting up the board.

It was only a few minutes later that there were only a handful of black pieces left on the board, surrounded by a sea of red. Tommy urged her to make her last few moves and, before she knew it, she had won the game—Tommy had let her win it, though, from the way he congratulated her so wholeheartedly, he never would admit to it.

He was as protective as always, forever looking out for her, a pang that reminded Charlotte of Spot and how he kept his boys out on the corner, always watching her.

Tommy was always there.

He wasn't the only one.

The weeks passed, the month slowly drawing to a close, but the corner always had at least one, sometimes two boys standing there, watching guard. Charlotte hadn't seen Spot since that night she spent in the Boys' Home; sometimes she thought she did and her heart would speed up. She told herself that only meant that she was frightened at the prospect but there were definitely times when she found herself absently caressing her bottom lip.

By the end of August, though, there were more and more afternoons where she sat in her father's kitchen alone. Mr. Sanders needed Tommy to help out in the butcher shop as soon as it opened and kept him there all day long; if Tommy nipped away for a few minutes at lunchtime to steal a few minutes with Charlotte, he considered himself lucky. Mr. Woods was working on a rather large order of dresses for a Society lady across the bridge which kept him at his sewing bench more often than not. In a bid to keep his daughter occupied, he tried leaving out patterns and lace for her to work on but Charlotte hid them in her own barely used sewing desk and contented herself with baking.

It was when she was in the kitchen that she felt Madge's loss more deeply but, at the same time, she could pretend her friend was still behind her, retrieving eggs from the icebox. Besides, when she was alone, no one was there to see her cry.

There was one evening, as his deadline to ready those dresses loomed ever closer, when Mr. Woods ran out of both white thread and black. He could have made do with one or the other and it was essential he go out and get some—he would've gone for it himself except there was still a train to be completed and at least two more bodices before morning. Turning to Charlotte to run the errand for him was his last choice but he was desperate enough to make it.

She jumped at the chance. It had been weeks since anyone heard anything about the Beast and even Charlotte's worries paled in comparison to the stifling feeling that she was back in her cage; no amount of baking kept her the solitude. Besides, it was only to old Mr. Smith's, only a few blocks away, and she'd gone that way countless times to buy supplies. So what if the sun had already gone down? Mr. Smith never closed up shop.

Her cape was still stowed away in the bottom of her trunk; she hid it after she returned that fateful morning and refused to wear it again due to the bad memories now attached to it. Even though the nights had gotten chillier, she figured she would be out and back before the night air got to her. She went as she was, pausing only to grab her father's wicker basket, heading down the stairs that led outside before she thought better of it.

For a moment she wondered if she should check and see if Tommy was available to take the walk with her. She hadn't forgotten the earnest way he'd tried to get her word that she always would come to him first back when the summer began... but then she got out on the street and saw the newsboy standing beneath the lamppost. All thoughts of Tommy flew from her mind.

She had forgotten about Spot's boys.

Obviously, they hadn't forgotten about her.

Having seen her standing in the stairwell, the boy approached her and respectfully removed his hat. She wasn't sure if he was one she'd seen before because, honestly, all of the newsboys began to look the same to her after awhile—none looked like Spot—but he walked up to her as if he knew her. Which, she suspected, he probably did.

"Miss Red? Where ya goin' to?"

There was something in his voice that made her take a closer look. That familiar tone of uneasy respect first, then the shock of red hair that stuck out in odd angles once the hat was removed and the freckles on his face that weren't just a group of them but really one big brown freckle with a couple of splashes of fair skin beneath. She recognized him at once: it was the same boy who had brought her through Buckbees Alley that night.

"Is it... are you Murphy?"

"That's right, Miss Red."

"My name is Charlotte," she murmured.

He said nothing and, with a start, Charlotte realized that he was still waiting for her to answer his question.

Well, she had a few of her own. "Tell me, Murphy, did he send you here?" She didn't have to say Spot's name, and she probably wouldn't if she had to, because both of them knew exactly who she was talking about.

"I guess it depends, miss, on what you mean by him sending me here," Murphy answered carefully.

"I think I'm more interested in what you mean."

"Did he want someone standin' over ya, makin' sure no harm came your way? Yeah. Did he send me as such? No... no, miss, I volunteered."

"Why?"

"Because it seemed right." The newsboy shrugged. "Because things are happenin', miss, things are changin' and our leader needs you. You can't be there for him if you fall to the Beast's claws or get yourself hurt runnin' errands late at night." He jerked his head over at her. "So, if you don't mind me askin', where ya goin'?"

Charlotte barely heard anything Murphy said after our leader needs you. Spot... Spot really hadn't given up on her, had he? She knew that, deep down, she had suspected that was what it meant the first night she saw that shadow underneath her lamppost, but to hear that straight from one of his boys, it made her shiver.

"Nowhere," she lied. "I'm not going anywhere." The words slipped out easily enough. It was a silly errand, a quick trip, one she had made countless times... but, somehow, she didn't want to tell him. She didn't want him to know.

And Murphy understood. He nodded and, quick as that, hit straight at the heart of the matter: "And that's what you want me reportin' back to him?"

"I don't want you reporting anything to him."

"Spot won't like that answer."

Charlotte cringed at the name. Her stomach sank as her mind called up those last unpleasant memories and the way Spot's drunkenness and Madge's death seemed intertwined. "Please," she whispered, the blood forever on her mind, "then just tell him to leave me alone. I don't want to speak to him. I don't want to see him. I just want... I just want to be safe."

Safe had meant being with Spot, not running from him. When had that changed?

When you accepted Tommy's proposal, she told herself. When the world stopped being a fairy story for children and you had to finally grow up.

People grow. People change. And people had to learn to stand on their own two feet, until a well-placed observation courtesy of a street boy pulled the rug out from under them—

Murphy gave Charlotte a slow, sad smile. He was, what, maybe eleven or twelve, but the expression he wore made him look much, much older. "As you say, miss. But, if ya don't mind me bein' so bold... I ain't too sure that's gonna stop him."

No, she supposed, it wouldn't. It hadn't yet.

Without another word from either of them, Charlotte clutched her basket, nodded her goodbyes and hurried to escape Murphy's knowing look. Her father was waiting for his thread, she reminded herself, and she needed to hurry. The memory of the Beast still lurked in the back of her mind, as did the understanding that, just because he hadn't attacked in recent weeks, it didn't mean he wasn't still out there. If anything, waiting might make the monster even hungrier.

The trip was a quick one. Mr. Smith was an elderly man whose life was his work. He remembered Charlotte from when she was a little girl and, in his eyes, she was still one. He invited her in for a glass of milk which she graciously refused and after only a ten minute chat, Charlotte was on her way back to her father's shop, her basket loaded down with white thread, black thread, and a new spool of tan Mr. Smith was keen to let Mr. Woods try.

It felt nice to stretch her legs and the breeze on her face was reviving. She had forgotten how it felt to be out on the streets, the freedom and the endless possibilities. For just one moment Charlotte Woods could be Charlotte Woods, without her father's worried glances or Tommy's offer of an arm. She took a deep breath, smiling to herself, giddy and almost drunk on the feeling.

She swung her basket, purposely taking her time on the way back. The streets were empty but that didn't bring out her nerves; on the contrary, she reveled in knowing she was all alone—until, out of nowhere, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and it was like someone had slipped a chunk of ice into the pit of her stomach.

Charlotte shivered and hugged herself. It was a late summer night and it was still quite warm out, nowhere near necessary for her cape, but the chill was sudden and unwelcome.

Someone was watching her. She could feel it.

It struck her then that she was trapped in the middle of the street, stuck between two lampposts. The light shone down on her like a beacon, illuminating Charlotte for all to see while keeping her blinded from whoever lurked just the past the light, in the darkness. She couldn't see them but she knew they were there. She could feel their heavy gaze weighing on her. The force was too much to bear.

There was a howl in the distance and, spooked, she instinctively thought of a wolf. The cry was similar; her father had moved her to a small city on the outskirts of Pennsylvania for a few months a couple of years back where there were wolves that haunted the forest and mountain lions that came down from the peaks during the winter. She used to fall asleep to their howls, praying that their small shack would protect her and her father from them.

It took her a few seconds before Charlotte remembered where she was and that a howl in Brooklyn probably belonged to a stray dog. It was still a creature she'd rather not meet when she was walking around this part of town on her own; a stray dog, or whoever wasn't too far from her in the pitch-black night.

She gave a little shake and, pretending that she wasn't as unnerved as she was, ducked out from beneath the reach of the gaslamp's light. Quick, short steps brought her to the next corner, her heels clacking louder than they had any right to, and she paused. After giving herself a moment for her eyes to adjust back to the gloom, Charlotte dared a curious glance behind her.

A shadow had appeared at the far end of the street.

She let out a frightened little noise, a mere whimper, before letting her fear roll right off of her shoulders; fear wouldn't do anything to help but a good, clear, sensible head might. It was difficult but she managed, tightening her grip on her basket as she did. Just in case, she hefted the basket a little higher and prepared to swing it if she had to. There was a pack of fresh needles in her front pocket. Needles, she thought a little hysterically, the seamstress's weapon.

Charlotte knew better than to run. But the bulk of her skirt clutched between nervous fingers, she certainly hurried back to her street. She never once looked behind her. The shadow was silent, still and deadly, yet she could feel the hot breath on the back of her neck as if the demon lurking within was standing right behind her. Charlotte refused to look behind for fear of what she might find there.

Murphy was gone. The one time she would've been glad to see a familiar face, he had disappeared. The lamppost on her corner still flickered brightly but there was no one standing beneath. Probably off to report back to Spot, or maybe he took pity on her and let her be. He could be the one following her, she thought with a little bit of hope—

—or worse, he could've already met the one who lingered behind her.

Charlotte gasped and, abandoning all pretense, ran that last few steps that separated her from the open stairwell. She darted up the stairs, clutching her basket to her like a shield, and fled into the sanctuary of her apartment, her heart beating like a drum the entire time she moved.

She didn't let out the breath she was holding until she was safely inside of her apartment again. The door was locked, her back was up against it, barring anyone from entering, and only then did Charlotte realize just how absolutely terrified she had been.


	12. Facade

Charlotte stayed in through most of September. She watched the world pass her by from the window in her bedroom.

There was a single tree that grew at the end of her street and she watched it as its leaves began to change from green to a vibrant golden red. It made her wonder what the trees in Prospect Park looked like but she knew she would never see. She wouldn't go alone and she couldn't ask Tommy to bring her. The place reminded her too much of Spot to even think of inviting Tommy in.

But even with the cooler weather and Tommy's daily visits—shortened as they were, he still found some time to see her every day—Charlotte didn't know what to do with herself. It had been another two weeks since she confronted Murphy and not a night went by when there wasn't at least a little bit where a shadow haunted the lamppost right under her window. Usually it was Murphy, and she didn't mind those nights too much, and once she waved down at Scotch, but the strangers made her feel like a prisoner. Once or twice she peeked out the window in time to see Tommy speak to the newsie as he was closing up the butcher shop for the night. Sometimes they left, sometimes they lingered, and Charlotte wished she could hear what Tommy was telling them.

Whatever it was, he didn't tell her.

She felt caged again, but this time she was her own warden. As much as she wanted to get out and taste the freedom Brooklyn had to offer, she knew the city belonged to Spot. There wasn't anywhere she could go where he couldn't get to her, and that wasn't counting the looming threat the Beast still presented. Howls echoing in her head, the icy feeling of a predator's eyes on her back, Charlotte chose to stay inside because she was too frightened to go out.

There wasn't much for her to do indoors which made it worse. After awhile her afternoon baking wasn't enough to help her mourn her friend; it only made her miss Madge all the more. So when Tommy would leave to go down to the butcher's shop, Charlotte began to leave the kitchen behind in favor of her bedroom. Small and cozy, it seemed safer somehow.

Charlotte had no use for the large sewing desk that took up part of the wall closest to the window; perhaps channeling Madge's dislike of the work, she pointblank refused to pick up a needle or thread no matter how listless or bored she was. Scraps of paper, frayed ribbons, torn stockings, all sorts of garbage littered the desktop until it closer resembled one of the side alleys outside rather than a seventeen-year-old girl's desk. Before long, Charlotte resorted to placing a white sheet over the whole structure to hide it—out of sight, out of mind.

She had no use for the desk itself, but she certainly came to rely on the stool.

As she watched as autumn fell softly over Brooklyn, she did so on her stool. During the day she tied the curtains back and moved her stool close to the window so that she could just sit and observe. After her scare the last time she went out, she didn't want to leave the apartment just yet. This was the next best thing.

From her perch, Charlotte watched as a different newsie sold papers on her corner every morning before another would come after suppertime to, well, stand guard; after her talk with Murphy, she couldn't deny that that was what they were doing. Tommy's quiet words did nothing to sway them and it was obvious that her pleading had fallen on deaf ears.

And that was if Murphy had ever even given that report to Spot at all. He was still there most nights—she could recognize him from her window now—but he made no move to catch her attention. And Charlotte, she didn't go down to speak to him again.

By mid-September she expected it all to end and was surprised when it didn't. Newsies all over New York were crying out the news: The Beast strikes twice in one night! Two bodies found in a Harlem park! Lock your doors, stay inside! No one safe!

Even Charlotte heard about it. The boy on the corner shouted it all morning until she, sick to her stomach at the idea that monster was still out there, simply closed her windows, drew the curtains and pretended not to hear another word. Of course, that didn't stop her from suspecting that the newsie's extra loud cries had been meant for her, especially.

It had been over a month since the Queens' girl's death one day and Madge's the next. The Beast must've been biding his time, coming up with a way to top his last feat, killing two girls within a day of each other. And it seemed he had done just that: this time he stole two lives in one night.

But in Harlem, she told herself, not here. Not in Brooklyn again.

So why, then, was Spot still having her watched? Unless it had never been about the Beast at all...

Whatever it was, after the Beast's twin attack in Harlem, Charlotte stopped spending her empty afternoons at the window, watching the world go by. Though she still stayed in her room whenever her father or Tommy was occupied and couldn't keep her company, she made sure to keep her curtains drawn.

Her appetite had been missing ever since she learned of Madge's death; now it was non-existent. Weight fell off of her already thin frame until she started to resemble little more than a skeleton in her afternoon dress. Charlotte's skin was stretched over her bones, her cheeks gaunt as her eyes dimmed. She still wore her red ribbon, tying back the loose honey blonde hair she couldn't even be bothered to curl. Other than that, she was almost unrecognizable. A few days sitting in the darkness was enough to make her already fair skin take on almost a greyish tinge. Mr. Woods started closing up his tailor shop as soon as the sun went down every evening, but even that didn't help her. Charlotte couldn't tell her father what was really bothering, and she didn't.

She couldn't tell anyone her deepest, darkest fear: that Spot Conlon had something to do with Madge's murder and, worse, that it was somehow her fault.

Tommy was quick to notice the change that overtook Charlotte, even if it left him unsure what to do about it. She had been acting strange for weeks, and while he thought their engagement might bring back the Charlotte Woods he fell in love with as a boy, Madge's body was discovered the next day and Charlotte drew further into her shell. He'd done everything he could to show her how much he cared—playing games, chatting with her, even just sitting with her so that she wasn't alone now that her friend was gone—and it seemed to have been working.

And then came the sensational news of the Beast's double murder. Two girls killed. It didn't matter that it happened so far away—Harlem or Brooklyn, it didn't matter. That the Beast had struck again was enough to shatter Charlotte. Maybe Mr. Woods was right. The spitfire he knew was gone now, as hard to reach as Madge Harris; this delicate young woman who promised to be his bride was there and she needed him.

Even if Charlotte didn't know it herself, Tommy knew she needed him.

In all, Tommy decided it was his fault. For too many reasons to count, this was his fault: he brought this all on Charlotte. If only there was more time for him to spend with her, to show her that he was there for her—that he had been and would always be there for her—then maybe a little life would find its way back into her once-warm brown eyes. The light had gone out, extinguished, faded away... it was up to Tommy to fix that.

But how? He was already stretching himself thin, working long hours alongside his father, carving up the meat, taking orders, making deliveries. He managed to sit with Charlotte most afternoons, sometimes sharing a quick meal with her and Mr. Woods, if his father was able to handle the dinner rush at the shop. Tommy didn't know what else he could do to help her until—

"Char? Charlotte, sweetheart... are you here?"

From her place in her bedroom, sitting on her stool alone, she had to work not to flinch at the term of endearment. Sweetheart... It was something Tommy had taken to calling her recently, if only to remind her that they were a promised couple. Yes, she was going to marry Tommy. And, yes, she knew she loved him. But the constant reminder that he loved her too, that he loved her more, well, it was no wonder that she kept to herself most of the day.

It was easier that way.

"Yes... yes, I'm here. I'm in my room," she called back, trying not to let her frustration show through her voice. What a silly question. Tommy had to know she was there—where else would she be?

"Can you come out into the kitchen, please?"

Despite entering her family's apartment whenever he wanted to—not that she minded that, of course, which was why the door was still unlocked after her father's early departure—Tommy absolutely refused to step one foot in her bedroom. It would be fine once they were married and shared a room together, he had explained to her, but until then it just wouldn't be right for him to enter hers.

And, since Charlotte understood all about being proper, she only let out a near-silent sigh before she rose up from her stool and joined Tommy in the kitchen without any argument.

He was standing by the table, his sandy hair mussed from where he normally wore his white butcher's hat. His apron was still on, though, starched white and, thankfully, pristine. The one time Tommy had come up while wearing an apron that had seen two sides of beef butchered that morning, Charlotte had taken one look at the blood that covered him and, thinking of Madge and remembering Spot's bloody undershirt, broke down in tears. He hadn't made that mistake again.

Tommy hadn't come up empty-handed. Held up by straps in both of his hands, he was carrying a cloth bag that was bulging at the seams.

"What's this?" she asked, the words escaping from her in her surprise.

With a boyish grin, he hefted up the bag and set it on his side of the table. "I brought you something."

"I can see that," Charlotte said, puzzled. She watched as Tommy propped up the bag and, reaching inside with both hands, brought out a stack of paperback books. "Books? You brought me books?"

"Exactly! Now you can have an adventure without every leaving the upstairs," he beamed, his hands still diving back inside for another handful of books. "Wouldn't that be something, Char?"

"That's... that was very sweet of you, Tommy."

Now, she could read, her father had insisted on teaching her when she was fairly young, but she rarely read anything other than newspapers. It had never occurred to her that she could sit down with a book and, if only for the moment, forget her own troubles. It was a thoughtful gesture, and it was sweet, but Charlotte couldn't help but feel a little bothered that his intent was to keep her in.

More than ever, she wished she could get out. But she couldn't and she wouldn't, not until the Beast was gone and Spot... when the Beast was gone and it wasn't Spot, she decided, that's when she would go back out again.

But, until then, maybe she could read these books. Heaven knows Tommy had bought plenty of them. There were already two piles on the table and he was still going. She watched with wide eyes as the piles seemed to grow. "There's so many. Wherever did you get them all?"

"I was just passing that little bookshop on Fulton while I was delivering a flank steak and I thought... well," Tommy said, reaching into his bag again and pulling out another four or five books, "I asked the bookseller for some suggestions. He thought you might be interested in reading some of these."

"Some?" Charlotte said, and the small, teasing laugh that followed made the tips of Tommy's ears go red. "It looks like you bought out the store!"

"I wanted to make sure I bought enough. Look," he said, picking up a slim paperback that looked like one of those dime store novels and placing it on top of another tottering pile, "there are books here that only have a couple of pages. You'll go through them in no time!"

"Yes," she agreed, before pointing at another book that looked like she could kill a rat with it, it was so thick, "and there are others that will take me until I'm twenty to finish."

"And then these two," he added, hardly hearing her reply as he went on to place two more books on top of the first pile, "I bought these because they reminded me of you. I know they're stories for children but... maybe you'll like them?"

Charlotte reached out and picked up the one on top. It was a little battered, the cover a striking red shade that suited the book's title: The Red Fairy Book by Andrew Lang—it was a book of fairy tales, she realized. And the other... she could tell at once why Tommy thought of her when he saw it. The cover featured a little fair-haired girl in a red frock holding up her hands in fright, warding off a deck of cards that were flying right at her face. Remembering the disaster of Tommy trying to teach her how to shuffle a deck of card—not to mention the red clothes and the blonde hair—she gave him a small smile.

"I love them all, Tommy. They're perfect," she said kindly, looking up to meet his worry-filled eyes. Maybe he really did mean his best by it. Besides, he didn't know the worries in her head or the fears that kept her inside—he didn't because, like with her father, she wouldn't tell him. But that didn't mean she should punish him for it. So, giving him a smile that said more than she ever could, she murmured a quiet, "Thank you."

Grinning from ear to ear in response to her smile, Tommy ran his hand through his sandy hair and sheepishly told her that he was glad to make her happy. Then, touching the front cover of the nearest book, he suggested that she might like to start with that one first and, if she liked it, he would be more than willing to hear all about it when she was done. Then, after seeing if she wanted him to open the window for some more sunlight, he left, heading off to the butcher's shop.

As soon as he left, her smile turned down into a slight frown as she placed those last two books to the side before picking one of the others at random, intently avoiding Tommy's pick for her to read. Despite how much things had changed, some of her waywardness had lingered.

It was one of the thicker books that she chose. Charlotte actually made it nearly a quarter of the way through Wuthering Heights before she tossed that book on top of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and retired to her room with a blinding headache that had nothing to do with reading for so many hours at once.

The next morning, though, Charlotte dutifully went through the pile of books again and started reading the first book that looked like there wasn't any hint of romance inside of it. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde seemed like a good choice: a short novella, only 70 pages, all about a good doctor and his not-so-good other half. She dove right in after breakfast and even cut Tommy's lunchtime visit short so that she could finish it.

She did, and when she placed the book down on the top of her covered sewing desk, Charlotte was left with a head full of thoughts and questions. Morals, that was what it was all about, morals, good and evil and man's right to play God. She was right when she thought there wouldn't be any romance in such a tale, but what she found was even worse: Stevenson's story was way too eerily similar with the suspicions Charlotte had been struggling with ever since she heard about Madge's murder.

Spot, she mused, was like Dr. Jekyll; the monster who killed Madge—the Beast or, she gulped, the boy in the red suspenders—was Mr. Hyde. There was good in all of us and bad, and when you gave in to the bad, death was the only release. Dr. Jekyll died first, and then the wicked Mr. Hyde took the coward's way out next, and Charlotte suspected that was the only way the Beast could be stopped... and she tried not to wonder what it would take to get Spot to forget she was there.

It was no surprise when Charlotte had nightmares that night.

In her dream, she was walking down a dark and smoky street; it could've been Brooklyn but in the certainty of the dreamer, she knew she was in London. Wolves, real wolves this time, they howled all around her and she had the innate understanding that, if she didn't escape and soon, the creatures would come right after her and gobble her up.

Up ahead there was a small man, wearing a cloak and leaning on a cane as he hobbled forward. Under the light of the full moon the golden tip of the cane glinted and it tapped the cobbles in an odd beat, marking the awkward gait of the hunched figure. He was the only one around except for a body lying in the gutter not too far from where he'd started and since he was upright and one his feet, he had all of her attention.

Charlotte had on a skirt with more ruffles underneath that she needed; gripping the fabric tightly, she lifted it up and hurried after the man. Something told her that he was dangerous, more dangerous than the wolves even, but the cry of the wolves echoed around her and she thought she'd rather take her chances with the man. Strangely enough, she wasn't afraid of him, not even when she ran carelessly by the corpse in the gutter, pausing just long enough to make out a mussed set of curls she'd only ever seen on Madge Harris. The dead girl's face was covered by all that hair and the blood pooling underneath kept Charlotte from looking any closer as she passed.

The girl was trampled, or maybe beaten with the cane, but how could it be if the man up ahead still held onto an unbroken walking stick? Who was he? He'd stopped at the corner, his back to her and, in company with the wolves, he threw back his head and howled.

Chills running coursing down her spine, she moved closer and closer. It was so very important, all of a sudden, that she get closer instead of running away. She had to know who it was.

Reaching out, Charlotte grabbed his shoulder and yanked, spinning the small man around so that she could see who it was under the cloak. He seemed to straighten as he turned, going from hunched and hobbled to straight-backed and proud before he met her face to face. She got as far as the dangerous smirk and the piercing cyan eyes before she gasped and—

—and, choking on her own breath, she woke up, her heart pounding and the back of her neck drenched in a sweat that had nothing to do with sleeping with the window shut.

Charlotte lay flat on her back, her fingers twisting the sheet beneath her, her eyes wide with panic. She fought the urge to scream as flashes of her nightmare passed in front of her eyes again. Awake now, she could appreciate the horror of Madge's corpse and the reveal of... of...

No, she told herself firmly, pushing down the ever-rising panic. Just, no. It was a dream—a terrible dream, yes, but a dream nonetheless. It didn't mean anything.

Except why was it that, when she closed her eyes again, all she saw was a bloody cane and that predator's smirk?

That was it. Shoving her covers away from her as if they carried the plague, Charlotte rose out of bed and, like a ghost in her long, white nightdress, drifted over to her stool and sat down. There wasn't any way she would be able to fall back asleep anytime soon and, with the moonlight high over head, maybe one of the fairy stories would calm her down and help her forget the visions of Edward Hyde in her head.

While still sitting, Charlotte placed the red-covered book in her lap before reaching out and pulling her curtains open for the moonlight and streetlamps outside; she didn't dare risk lighting a candle in case it woke her father and he came to check why she was up. The light filtering in once her curtains were pulled back, it was more than enough for her to be able to read the page. She was just about to start when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the person standing on her corner, looking up pointedly at her window.

Her heart started to pound but she didn't move. Whoever was out there—and it couldn't be one of Spot's boys, not this late—they already saw her open her curtains... they knew she was awake. But what were they doing out there? And who was it?

Looking down at the street, Charlotte's heart just about skipped a beat when the figure moved and, with her, her long dark hair. She spun, her dark hair fanning out behind her, her skirt flaring in the slight breeze, before she stopped and, tilting her head back, glared up at the window. The moonlight illuminated her face and, with a start, she knew.

Cinder.

And then, because suddenly she didn't think the streets of Brooklyn were as scary as the images she'd just seen in her head, Charlotte had pulled her red cape out from the depths of her trunk and slung it over her shoulders before she even knew what she was doing. Her father had come up early that night and was slumbering peacefully on his cot in the kitchen. She could hear his snuffling snores from her bedroom and didn't slip her shoes back on until she was out in the hall so that the clacking wouldn't wake him.

It didn't matter that it was late out. It didn't matter that the last time she'd gone out she'd been watched, or that the only other time she'd met Madge's friend, the two girls had been arguing. Something told Charlotte to go and, still feeling as if she was dreaming even though her eyes were wide awake, she went.

The wind was blowing much stronger when Charlotte made it outside; the greasy smell of an oncoming heavy thunderstorm weighed down the night air, the harsh breezes the only break in the misery. Clutching her cape tightly around her, grateful she grabbed it, Charlotte hesitated before walking towards the dark-haired girl.

"Cinder?"

If Cinder was surprised that Charlotte knew her name, she didn't show it. Instead, she nodded curtly. "Blondie," she greeted. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she managed to make that one word a hiss.

Charlotte couldn't help herself in thinking that. There was a feral quality to the factory girl, a nitty, gritty toughness that was a warning as much as a badge of honor. From the torn skirt to the stocking-less legs and the hair that was far longer than it should've been, Cinder was proud of who she was. Like the alley cat Charlotte was reminded of, Cinder Harrow stalked the streets like she owned them, flexing her claws and hissing her displeasure.

No more than a few feet separating the two of them, it was quite obvious that she was very displeased.

Cinder's lip curled, and her front canine tooth seemed to overhang her bottom lip. Her dark, ratty hair was puffed and frizzed with the humidity and the promise of thunder and lightning and never-ending September rain. She stood, tensed, prepared to leap and fight and Charlotte wondered if it had been such a smart idea after all to meet the girl alone.

There was no guard dog to protect her from Cinder. Charlotte was too busy protecting herself from Spot to expect his help.

She was on her own.

"What are you doing here?" she asked daringly, surprised at her nerve. "Madge... she won't be able to help you again."

"Oh, I know." Her answer was flippant, her laugh more of a purr when she caught the way Charlotte looked back at her, her mouth hanging open rudely. "Don't look so surprised, Blondie. I can read. Can read between the lines, too. I know what the papers ain't sayin'."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." The air seemed heavy, like a blanket on her shoulder. From high up above, the thunder rolled, a long, drawn-out sound that might've drowned out Cinder's reply. A rush of chilled air, a blast of wind, it passed by Charlotte, causing her hair to wave and her cape to flap.

Tightening her grip on the scarlet material, she looked behind her at the inviting doorway before turning apologetically back to Cinder. "I shouldn't have come down, I'm sorry. My father is waiting for me."

"Your pa is sittin' up, waitin' for you in the dark?"

Charlotte ignored her. She knew as well as Cinder that there wasn't any light on in the apartment upstairs. She had just hoped the other girl hadn't noticed.

"You think the Beast did it?" Cinder called out loftily. "'Cause you'd be wrong if you think he did."

That got Charlotte's attention. She froze, her back to Cinder. There was tension in the air that could've been the calm before the storm, or it might've had everything to do with Cinder's words.

Slowly, she turned around. "Madge's death was a tragedy," she said softly, trying to make herself believe what she said. "A horrible accident that could only be the work of that monster. Who else would want to hurt her?"

"You knew Madge, Blondie, didn't you? Can't you think of anyone who might wish her harm?" Cinder clucked her tongue. "Or didn't you know her as well as you think?"

"Madge was a good girl!"

Cinder scoffed. "If you believe that, I got a bridge I could sell ya. It's right here in Brooklyn, you heard of it?"

"This was a mistake," Charlotte said, more to herself than to Cinder. "I never should've come down."

"It's no mistake. You really think you're so much better than me, don't you? You wouldn't last two days on these streets if it wasn't for Conlon bein' all dopey and havin' his eyes on you." Cinder spat in the dirt, her hair flying behind her in the wind. It made her look crazy, it made her look deranged, but she barely noticed the weather. "C'mon, you can spare a coupla more minutes chat with me. The things I could tell you... say, don't you want to know why Spot was here the night Madge got butchered?"

Charlotte's blood ran cold. The boy in the red suspenders... "You... you know about that?"

"Let's just say that I know about a lot more than you would think," snarled Cinder. "We can't all hide with our pa's and still manage to have food to eat and clothes on our back. And the streets... the streets can be damn telling sometimes."

Charlotte flinched. She didn't know what was worse: what Cinder was saying or how she said it. Maybe she was hiding out upstairs, too afraid to come back down. Brooklyn wasn't what she remembered it to be anymore. Maybe she should've stayed in Connecticut, after all.

But she hadn't, and she owed it to Madge—she owed it to herself—to find out the truth if she could. If she didn't, if she ignored Cinder, ran upstairs and went to bed as if this whole encounter was nothing more than a bad dream, Charlotte would never forgive herself. She wouldn't spend the rest of her life wondering what if.

What if the Beast hadn't killed Madge? What if Spot had?

What if—

"Tell me," she demanded, raising her voice. The wind had picked up even more, the storm was only minutes away, but she couldn't go inside now. She had to know. Darn Cinder, she'd walked right into her trap.

Lightning flashed around the girls, lighting up the sky, illuminating all the dark, sleeping buildings on the street. It was late—no shops were open, barely any windows were lit. It would be a thunderstorm for the ages, one no one was meant to see, except for the blonde and the brunette, waiting for the skies to open up and pour down upon them.

Neither one of them was moving.

Slowly, almost lazily, like a cat stalking its prey, Cinder swayed closer to Charlotte, her eyes never leaving Charlotte's face. "It's your fault, Blondie. Everything is all your fault. You came, with your pretty hair and your pretty skin and your pretty, pretty smile, and that was the end of Spot and me. But I don't blame you for that... how can I? Not when I took him from Madge."

Charlotte felt like Cinder had slapped in her in the face. "Madge?" she squeaked out. "Spot knew Madge?"

"For a time," Cinder admitted, swallowing a cruel grin at how Charlotte responded to that revelation. "Spot knows a lot of girls, and our pal, Madge... she had quite a few lovers of her own." There was something left hanging at the end of her sentence, a tidbit of gossip left unsaid as Charlotte, too preoccupied with the idea of Spot and Madge, disregarded it entirely.

"I don't understand." Now that was an understatement... "Are you telling me that's why he came?"

"No. I told you, already. It's all your fault." When Charlotte didn't seem to get it, Cinder huffed angrily. "Spot came because Madge called for him. She wanted to see him, she arranged their meeting."

"But why?"

"Because Madge wanted to warn him to stay away from you," Cinder told her. "Because she didn't want to see you used and thrown away like Spot Conlon does to all the girls. That's why he came and, well, that's why she died." Then, because watching the understanding dawn on Charlotte's too-perfect face was something, but not as much as seeing the girl buckle under the weight of what Cinder would say next, she added, "No one should ever stand in the way of Spot and whatever the hell he wants. That's how people get hurt. That's how people die." She huffed again and, taking solace in how betrayed she felt when Spot pawned her off on Scotch O'Reilly, she spat out bitterly: "And it's all your fault."

And then, having said that, Cinder grinned with her lips and nothing else before turning around and walking away. The lightning struck again, closer this time, making her silhouette stand out against the brightness of the light. Knowing Charlotte was behind her and damn sure the tailor's daughter wouldn't do anything in retaliation, Cinder strutted away, her grin stretching into something resembling a satisfied smirk.

Cinder was right about Charlotte: she just stood there, stunned. It was one thing to wonder, to secretly suspect, but to have someone—someone who, she knew very well, was some sort of friend of Spot's—prove all of her worries as true... it was too much. Her chest tightened, her heart started to pound and only one phrase repeated over and over in her mind until she managed to get it out.

How did she know? How did she know? How didsheknow? How—

"How do you know?"

Cinder kept walking away.

Charlotte moved after her, running but stopping after a couple of steps. She yelled over a crack of thunder, "How do you know?"

Cinder paused; the thunder wasn't so loud as to drown out Charlotte's cry. And when she turned around, the look on her face could've curdled fresh milk. "Maybe you should be askin' yourself how come you don't?" Walking away backwards now, her cat's eyes glinting malevolently at Charlotte as she went, she laughed wryly. "Oh, the things I know about Spot Conlon..."

And as the first thick, hot drops of rain started to fall all around her, Charlotte stood stubbornly there as it beat down on her shoulders. She watched Cinder go with her breath caught in her throat and resolved then and there that she was forever done with factory girls and street boys and wicked, wicked Spot Conlon.

Because, one thing for sure, she didn't want to know.


	13. All Around Me

Spot Conlon had never been the type of boy to just mope around. The morning he made the decision to run out on Red, leaving her behind in the quarantine room, he didn't dwell on it for too long. There was too much else to do: go after Scotch, get his slingshot back, find out what in the world ever possessed his lieutenant to do that to him, and maybe figure out why the hell he was covered in blood and had no memory of what happened the night before after he learned about Red's engagement to that Sanders bum.

But, just because he didn't dwell on it, that didn't mean that Red didn't cross his mind. She did. In fact, she hardly every left it. He just didn't obsess over her. There were other things he had to work through.

It wasn't the blood that worried him. It wasn't his—there wasn't a single mark, not a scratch or a cut on him, and as long as it wasn't his, half the worry was off his shoulders. He couldn't even say that finding Red sleeping in his bed was a concern. He didn't know how she ended up there but he'd be lying if it wasn't something he'd been hoping for; maybe not now that she was engaged, but still. No, it was the not remembering that bothered Spot, the not remembering how crazy he could've been, how out of control he must've been.

And then came the news that very same morning: the Beast had struck in Brooklyn. It wasn't in the papers yet, the news was just breaking as the sun came up, but the streets were echoing with the gossip: some well-to-do girl called Marjorie was killed, knifed by the sounds of it, and while she was another one who was everything the Beast's other victims weren't, Spot couldn't help his suspicions. It was just too... convenient that the murder was done by anyone else.

That night, Spot went down to the local tavern again but chose water over whiskey as he sat in the back, waiting. His waiting proved worth it when Officer MacMillan came slumping in much later on, tired after fourteen hard hours on aching feet and desperate for any drinks the other patrons were willing to buy. Even Spot tossed a nickel into for the copper just to hear what he had to say before the newspapers put out their spin on the truth the next day.

MacMillan, to be sure, he was convinced that it was the Beast who did it. The victim, Marjorie Harris, was a well-bred girl who might've been out with a friend when she ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time—the terrible stab wounds and merciless slaying of the girl had to be the work of that monster, regardless of what some stuck-up butcher thought. Because that was the truth of the matter. The news was what the papers said and that butcher Sanders had enough cops and beat reporters willing to see things his way.

So when the circulation bell rang the next day, Spot went ahead and bought his papers with the rest of his boys. Or, rather, Scotch bought them with a sheepish grin, trying to earn his way back into Spot's good favor after the stunt he pulled with sticking Spot in the Cosy. With barely a nod for thanks, he took his papers and scanned the headlines greedily.

There wasn't a single mention of the Beast anywhere on the front page. The only concession to that poor girl's death was a small sensational article a few pages in—if Spot hadn't been looking for it, he probably would'nt have found it at all. Nevertheless, on every corner you heard them, the Brooklyn newsies crying out loud, crying about the Beast.

Well, not every corner...

Spot went down to the docks because, Beast or not, Red or not, he was still Spot Conlon and that's what Spot did, selling down by the docks. He relied on every other headline in the paper, never once using Marjorie Harris's curious murder to earn a couple of dimes.

And, since he could do that as easily as he could stand there and breathe, he spent most of his time that morning, stewing over the Beast—because he wasn't half as convinced that it wasn't the Beast—and just a little, well, hopeful that, despite everything that happened the last few days, Red would still be there to see him.

If he had it his way, it would be as if none of what had happened had happened. He would be down by the docks and she would run up at the last minute, a penny in her hand and that apologetic smile of hers that always made Spot's heart race. Hell, he would've given up that one kiss with Red if it meant things were back to normal: that she was his Red, not Tommy Sanders, and that the Beast hadn't found the one night to strike in Brooklyn when Spot could fault himself for being too drunk to do anything about it.

But it wasn't to be. Six hours he stood there, pacing the planks, looking out over the water, trying not to be too eager when he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. Six hours and the closest thing he got was a tattered, red flag in the distance. There was no sign of Red Woods at all.

He didn't blame Red for staying in. How could he? In fact, he decided, if she would've dared come see him after the Beast's attack, he would've sent her back to herfiancé himself. He didn't want to hear her excuses, her excuses or her apologies, and he was terrified she might risk it, risk running across the Beast herself in order to explain. Spot was glad when she stayed upstairs, and while he blamed his attachment to the girl for the Beast managing to sneak in, he sent whatever boys were willing—and some that weren't, but feared Spot's mood too much to say so—to stand outside Red's window, making sure she was safe.

Spot didn't go himself. He couldn't. The Beast's attack, this Marjorie's girl murder, it was like a slap in the face or a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. For the first time that summer, his eyes were open again—he didn't just see Red, he saw all of Brooklyn. This was his fault. So damn preoccupied with Red, he let the safety of Brooklyn slip right out of his hands. Let his boys, let Scotch and Murphy and some of the others, let them watch over Red.

He had Brooklyn to worry about—

"Hey, Spot. Long time, no see, eh?"

—though it seemed like he wasn't the only one worrying about Brooklyn.

Spot was back on the docks again, like usual. It was right around the time for him to head back to the distribution center for the evening edition but he wasn't in any rush. He was just lingering in his familiar spot, his back up against the wooden beams, staring over the water, watching the slowly setting sun as it rippled against the slight waves. He heard his name, recognized the voice and, because of that, he took his time turning around before coming face to face with Jack Kelly of Manhattan.

"Jack be nimble, Jack be quick." Spot smirked almost like he meant it. "What the hell brings you here?"

And, like Spot had meant to do the night he discovered that Red was engaged to another man, the first person who had enough nerve to stray into Brooklyn and talk to Spot was his old ally from across the bridge. He'd wanted to sit down with Jack that night and maybe talk over the likelihood of the Beast striking in their territories but what was the point now? Except, now that it seemed the Beast had finally struck, it was Jack Kelly who made the trip over the Brooklyn Bridge in search of Spot.

Because, after the casual greetings, smug grins and obligatory spitshakes, the conversation immediately turned to the vicious killer.

Jack had his cowboy hat on his head and a cigarette hanging lazily off his lips. When he inhaled and then exhaled quickly, the smoke billowed around the edge of his hat until Spot got the impression that his head was on fire. His brow furrowed at the seriousness of their conversation and then, squatting down slightly so that he was more on level with Spot, he asked the one question that brought him there: "Hey, Spot? You don't think he'll show his mug around there, do ya?"

"I never woulda thought he'd gut ten girls and not get caught but you know the New York bulls," Spot said honestly. It may not be the answer Jack wanted but, well, it was certainly the right answer in Spot's opinion. He nodded over at Jack. "How 'bout you? How you holdin' up?"

"I'm tellin' ya, it could be better... Sarah's ma won't even let her out these days. Shit, Spot, I'm lucky if I get my sellin' partner!"

Looking up, Spot was staring at some point past Jack. He couldn't meet the other boy's eyes when he said offhandedly, "My sellin' partner vanished weeks ago."

"You?" Jack sounded surprised. "A partner?"

Spot shrugged. "He bought my papes for me. Close enough."

"Oh." Jack took a thoughtful drag off of his cigarette before, "The Beast?"

"Who knows, Jacky Boy?" Spot folded his arms behind his head, leaning up against one of the upright wooden beams on the dock. "Who knows?"

And that was the end of their talk about the Beast. And, while they made small talk about the bridge that connected their territories and reminisced royally over the strike last year, Spot pointblank refused to hear another word on the subject.

Jack Kelly wasn't the only one to take the trek into Brooklyn following the hushed up attack. Three days after the newspapers insisted that the poor girl's murder was just an unfortunate coincidence—no need to get all of Brooklyn worked up when it couldn't be proven—Spot was just heading back to the distribution center to buy his evening papers. Uneasy hands were clenched in fists at his side, his thin lips pulled in a straight line. Three days since the rumors of the Beast ran rampant through the streets and Spot had yet to lay eyes on Red again. Maybe that was why, when he heard the whistle and the shout of his name, he whirled around, his fists flying up, ready to strike.

Bruno Wright's big baby blue eyes widened in surprise, his face twisting into a grimace that made his long, jagged scar pop out of his weathered face. Whether or not it was just a reflex, his own hands rose into a defensive position. The two stocky Bronx boys that flanked their leader everywhere he went—because Bruno wasn't a fool, especially not to walk into Brooklyn uninvited—they froze and drew closer to Bruno, hurriedly figuring the odds of getting out of Spot Conlon's territory with all their limbs still attached.

It wasn't looking too good for them.

And then Spot, recognizing Bruno and his boys for who they were—and what they were: no threat to him—he lowered his fists and, jerking his chin over at Bruno, snapped, "I never thought I'd see you poke your head 'round here. What do ya want, Bruno?"

Seeing Bruno standing there, bold as brass... it was like someone had sucker-punched him right in his gut. It was a stark reminder of another loss that Spot blamed himself for: Squints. Damn it! Spot had promised himself over and over again after Squints disappeared that he would find the Beast before he had the chance to strike in Brooklyn and Bruno standing there, it was just another way of the world telling Spot he failed.

How he failed Brooklyn.

In the Bronx, Bruno was considered one of the best cards players around. He had a poker face to kill for, could read every opponent's ideas and moves before they made them and, most of all, could bluff the buttons off a copper's coat. He took one look at Spot, realized it was a foolish mistake to make this trip, then rearranged his features so that it looked like that thought had never crossed his mind.

"You came to see me after the Beast struck the Bronx, Spot. Just thought I'd repay the favor."

Spot felt his hackles raise and it was all he had to keep from growling. "The papes say it wasn't the Beast."

"Yeah," said Bruno with a flippant wave of his hand, "and we all know that the papers always get it right, eh?"

"So what if it's the Beast? He could be makin' his rounds, right? The Bronx, Queens, Harlem... shit, it was time for Brooklyn. That don't explain what you're doin' here." Then, calling up a deadly little smirk, he asked, "Unless you came here with news on my runner?"

It was easy to see from his expression that Spot mentioned the one thing Bruno had prayed he wouldn't. "I'm, uh, I'm still lookin' into it."

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

"It ain't like that, Spot," Bruno insisted. "I just, ya know, wanted to stop in and see if there was anything ya needed from the Bronx. I mean, we got your back if ya want it." He offered Spot a grin that looked lopsided thanks to his scar. "No troubles between the Bronx and Brooklyn, right?"

What else could he say? Spot already had his hands full with the Beast—there was no way he could afford a territory scrap with the Bronx over a kid that vanished over a month ago.

"There ain't no troubles whatsoever, Bruno," he shrugged, trying not to notice how that one phrase caused Bruno to relax and his two goons to take one near-unnoticeable step each away from their leader.

At least, Spot then thought to himself, not with the Bronx. But troubles? Oh, there were plenty.

Even more than even he knew...

Tommy Sanders' twenty-first birthday fell on a Friday that year, September 21st. If it wasn't for her father reminding her about it at supper one night the week before, Charlotte never would have remembered. It wasn't like Tommy to talk about himself, or expect any gifts. He liked to do it for others; the piles of books that still sat mainly untouched were proof of that. But then again, so did Charlotte—

Don't think about the red suspenders!

—except she had no idea what she should give him for his birthday. To simply buy something seemed so impersonal and she couldn't allow her father to tailor a present for her to give to the man she would be marrying before his next birthday. Which left only one thing for her to do—

"Papa?" she asked, the tips of her fingers already throbbing in anticipation, "do you think you could teach me how to sew something for Tommy?"

Of course, Mr. Woods was more than willing to close his shop for an hour the next morning while he went over the steps for Charlotte to create a bowtie from scratch. Because it was Charlotte making it, she used a white fabric, checkered with black and red, but it was a lighter red so that it didn't look so much like the blood that still haunted her. It took her two afternoons to complete the project, in between reading another of the books Tommy bought her, and by the time it was done, there were more than a few drops of spilt blood dotting the design. But at least it was done.

They had a cozy dinner at the Sanderses the night of Tommy's birthday, just the four of them: Mr. Sanders, Mr. Woods, Tommy and Charlotte. Mr. Sanders went all out—or, rather, the woman who tended to his rooms did. Mrs. Green made four courses to celebrate Tommy's birthday, each one more elaborate than the last until Charlotte found herself absolutely stuffed with a chocolate cake left for dessert.

The whole time she sat there, she couldn't help comparing this dinner with the last. Back then she was undecided as to what she wanted but now... did it matter? She was going to matter Tommy Sanders in the beginning of June, and she would marry him regardless of the niggling doubts or the way she couldn't think of him as anything more than a brother no matter how hard she tried. Still, it had only been a month and already she depended on him, teaching her games, bringing her books to read. For all she knew that dependence was just another sort of love and, in time, she would see him the same way he saw her.

They had all the time in the world...

Because she could feel Tommy's eyes on her, Charlotte took a few small forkfuls of the rich and decadent cake, sparing a few small smiles in between bites but never letting her mouth seem empty for too long in case Tommy wanted to start up a conversation at the dinner table. Mr. Sanders, as usual, commanded all attention and Charlotte was more than happy to keep it that way. She just couldn't work up any enthusiasm, not even after the way Tommy thanked her graciously for her gift.

Maybe it was all the rich, heavy food, she thought, or maybe it was the way she had been subconsciously expecting it even before Tommy cleared his throat as he stood up from the table. His plate had been cleaned, every bite of the cake eaten, and everybody present could see that Charlotte was unable to finish any more than the few bites she'd already taken. As far as anyone could see, the dinner was over and, as such, Tommy approached Charlotte with one hand outstretched and a boyish grin curving his lips.

"Would you like to take a walk with me, Char?" he asked.

"I don't know..." She turned to look at her father and knew he echoed her doubts. Meanwhile, Mr. Sanders—already red-faced from too much wine—was roaring how it was hightime the couple spent part of the night out under the stars together. Charlotte felt herself pale and Mr. Woods started to protest, but it was Tommy's earnestness that settled it for all of them.

"It's my birthday," he said and she noticed that he had already slipped the bowtie around his neck. "Besides, isn't it somewhat of a tradition?"

How could she deny him that?

"Since you put it that way... all right. Let's take a walk." Charlotte stood up then swooped down on her father, giving him a gentle peck on the cheek, all the while wishing he would put a stop to this. She wasn't ready yet, she couldn't bear leaving the apartment, but still she murmured, "I'll be in soon, Papa. Don't worry about me."

When Mr. Woods still looked hesitant, Tommy gave him a winning smile. "I'll guard your daughter with my life, sir."

"I—yes... I guess that'll be fine," Mr. Woods stammered out. He knew he couldn't say no, either.

Which was how Charlotte found herself walking around Brooklyn with Tommy. Clinging to his arm as if he alone could save her should the Beast appear—or, she feared, worse—she followed where he led, answering his questions in short, few-word replies, watching intently for any shadows that could be lurking nearby. Tommy, like his father, was more than capable of keeping the conversation going without too much effort on her part and, when Charlotte stopped answering at all, the two of them walked in a companionable silence.

At least, Tommy was keeping up a companionable air. Charlotte, she just couldn't shake the feeling that this was wrong, that she shouldn't be doing this. Gnawing nervously at her lip, trying to keep Tommy from seeing how irrationally nervous she was, she took two short steps to every long stride of Tommy's, unaware of where exactly they were in Brooklyn until she caught a deep breath and stopped suddenly.

She smelled the salt water on the air, the rank odor of dead fish and stale heat, and knew where she was. Even though it was dark and she'd never been this far from the apartment at night, there was no denying it.

The docks... how had they gotten there? Even worse... why?

"Char?"

It occurred to her that Tommy had been talking when she stopped short. She gave her head a small shake. "I'm sorry... were you saying something?"

"I just wanted to say thank you again. For my tie," Tommy said, plucking at the bowtie he wore proudly.

That calmed her just enough for her to remember to breathe out through her nose instead of being hit with the smells she so strongly associated with... she wouldn't even think his name. What if he was out there? "I'm glad you liked it. I wanted to make you something myself for your birthday."

"That's right," Tommy agreed, "it is my birthday. And do you know what I want more than anything?"

"A pair of socks to match your bowtie?"

He laughed. "No..."

"What then?"

"This."

And Tommy leaned in to give her a kiss. Without even thinking about it, Charlotte turned her head to the side so that his lips fell softly against her cheek. She still wasn't ready for that yet, either. She loved Tommy, she loved him like a dear friend, and maybe even more like a brother, but she just couldn't find it in herself to love him like a husband. No... not yet.

Tommy pulled back, startled and a little hurt. "Char?"

Charlotte tried to laugh it off with a girlish little flutter; all that escaped was a strangled sort of chuckle that showed them bother how uncomfortable she was. She took a deep breath and, ignoring the smells again, turned slowly and started to go back the way they came. "I think it's time we started back, don't you?" she called behind her. "Papa might worry."

At first she thought he would agree but the steel in Tommy's voice that chased her was hard and strong enough to make Charlotte turn back around and face him.

"You're my girl, not his."

Her heartrate picked up. "Tommy, what are you talking about?"

"That boy, the one with the red suspenders—" Charlotte swallowed her gasp, so that it came out like a cross behind a hiccup and a wheeze "—yes, you know exactly who I'm talking about. I saw you, I saw the way you looked at him. I was there when we told you about Madge, how white you turned. You're thinking of him always, aren't you?"

"That's foolish talk," Charlotte insisted. "Come, I really do think we should turn back. You've been working too hard lately. You don't know what you're saying."

"Of course I do, Char. I've spent these last few weeks waiting for you to open up to me, to be honest with me. I've been there for you, watched you watch the window as if you're waiting for someone to appear. What are you holding back?"

"Nothing. I think you're being silly. Let's go back—"

He grabbed her arm. "You do love me, don't you?"

"I..." Charlotte's heart was now beating so loud that she could barely hear her strangled whisper over the thump-thump-thump against her chest. "Where is this all coming from?"

"I need your answer, Charlotte," Tommy pleaded. He gave her arm a tight squeeze.

"Tommy," she gasped, trying to wrench out of his grasp, "you're hurting me!"

He let go of her as if her touch had burned him. "I'm sorry—"

"You should be." Charlotte was rubbing her arm. A red mark rimmed her pale skin and she prayed it wouldn't bruise. She took a wary step away from Tommy. "I gave you my word, didn't I? We're going to be married."

"Then prove it to me. Kiss me."

"I told you, you're being silly."

"No, I'm not. I mean it," Tommy told her, wringing his hands together as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab her arm again. He moved closer, so close that she could see the dusting of freckles that covered his nose. "I want a kiss from my fiancé. A real one."

"It's not proper," she argued,struggling to keep her voice calm. "Not out here."

"We're engaged now, Char. You wear my ring for all of Brooklyn to see. A kiss isn't asking too much."

"Tommy, I—"

He moved too quickly for her to react. Before she could turn away again, or do anything to stop him, Tommy had her face held between his hands and his lips pressed against hers. It was nothing like the one kiss she shared with Spot. This was a violation, despite it being her fiancé who was kissing her, and the terrible sensation made her stomach drop. She'd given herself over to Spot; just then, she wanted nothing to do with Tommy.

Too stunned to do anything else, Charlotte waited for the pressure against her lips to fade away. When Tommy pulled back, his eyes were shining so brightly only a few inches away from her face; she nearly flinched when she saw a sliver of her own startled reflection staring back at her. Her breath caught in her throat and she refused to let out a cry until Tommy finally let go of her cheeks.

It was only then, with an arms-length of space separating them again, that Tommy caught sight of how frightened she looked. He panicked. "Oh my God, I didn't mean... please—"

That was all he managed before Charlotte, realizing that she was free, turned and fled, leaving a very upset Tommy Sanders alone on the empty street.


	14. Every Breath You Take

There was something about the docks. Whenever he was angry or confused or he knew that spending the night in the local tavern just wouldn't be enough, Spot Conlon usually found himself on one of the docks overlooking the East River. At night, with the calm water lapping at the posts, the quiet slap was reassuringly peaceful.

When the only alternative was the bustle and roar of the Working Boys' Home, he needed the peace.

Five weeks. More than a month. That's how long it had been since he last saw Red. The reports he kept receiving from his boys, from Scotch and Murphy, Milton and some of the others... they were all promising in their way. Spot may not have seen Red, but hardly any of the others had, either. Something had been keeping her in these last few weeks. He liked to think it was the news of the Beast's attack—allegedly not the Beast, Spot thought with a snort—in Brooklyn that kept her in. To think it might have to do with something else... to do with him... well, that was one thought he didn't want to think about too much.

He almost gave in. Tired of waiting for endless reports, Spot longed to stop by Red's place, take up the position underneath her window, and wait to catch a glimpse of her with his own eyes. Just to assure himself that, even if he failed Brooklyn, he'd done well by Red. He probably would've gone too except that, before he did, it happened again. Like all those weeks before, it was the Beast that got in his way.

It wasn't Brooklyn, Spot Conlon had done the best he could—too little, too late, he bitterly added—to make sure of that. It was Harlem this time, two girls down. The Beast wasn't stopping.

Red was still hiding.

Spot pretended he didn't care.

Still, once he heard the news, he had sent Milton over to Red's place with the express orders of making sure the girl knew; by then, there was no chance he could go himself. From his reports, Spot knew damn well that she wasn't going to come down and buy a paper and, seeing as how all of his boys came back laughing off warnings from that butcher's boy Sanders, it didn't seem like there was any chance of a paper making its way up to her. But a newsie had his voice and Spot made sure to tell Milton to use his.

Then, because he wasn't taking his position of leader in Brooklyn lightly, he sent Scotch over to Harlem to talk with the newsies there. Harlem was a rough district watched over by a known-opium fiend called Trace McMahon, and when Scotch came back with a big grin—Cecelia Rayner's whorehouse in Harlem was legendary—and news that the two victims were a pair of Cecelia's girls, Spot finally decided to let Scotch off the hook.

Scotch, for his part, was doing all he could to keep Spot's trigger-thin temper from going off. It wasn't easy.

He stopped talking about girls around his leader, never once admitting that he was the reason Red came over to the lodging house that one night, and if he even started to mention Cinder Harrow's name, he stopped midway until it seemed like he was suddenly becoming preoccupied with sinning and the state of his mortal soul. They talked about Brooklyn and her safety and how they would keep the Beast from coming back. Hell, he even took his turn checking up on Red, though that was more because he felt guilty himself for inviting her over.

And, when Spot felt his fingers flex and the soles of his feet itch and he took to walking the dark streets of Brooklyn alone as if daring the Beast to find him, Scotch stayed behind at the Working Boys' Home and made sure that none of the other boys got silly ideas in their heads. Spot Conlon could take care of himself. After what happened to that kid Squints and that poor dame Marjorie, Spot was probably the only one who was willing to take on the murderous Beast.

On that particular night, Spot hadn't really liked the idea of leaving the lodging house unguarded, what with Scotch back in Harlem (to check up on things, he'd said with a sly wink) and Mrs. Kirby having been moved to the hospital last week when her cough went from a simple one to a racking hack that left the old matron weak and gagging. The acting matron, a hawk-faced woman called Cole, she made sure the house was closed precisely at curfew and turned in herself, never checking that any of the lodgers were actually abiding by her rules. And while he missed Mrs. Kirby and even arranged for Scotch to bring her flowers on behalf of the boys when he came back from Harlem, he couldn't say that he minded being able to go in and out the side door as he pleased.

Except, if he could go in and out, that meant anyone could. So, taking the advice Scotch gave him before he headed off to Harlem, Spot put Murphy at the back door and had the kid watch over it so that he could go out and clear his head. Though that meant that Murphy wasn't standing over at Red's place, Spot figured that he could send Milton back over that way; he could've just given up on her, he knew, but it wasn't in Spot's nature to quit. And Milton, so desperate to prove himself in Spot's eyes, took his placement as guard as a sign that he was finally being accepted amongst the Brooklyn newsies.

Of course, if Spot knew that Milton was an early riser and was prone to falling asleep even earlier... well, he might've just given that assignment to any other of his boys...

So off Spot went to the docks, no longer harboring any half-bitten hopes that maybe she would be there. And while he saw the ghost of Red standing with him on every plank of wood, with her wavy blonde hair, that damn red ribbon of hers and the white skirt that haunted him, Spot got into the habit of looking in such a way that he only saw what was directly in front of him. And what he saw was a narrow railing that was the perfect target for his anxiousness and fury.

When the Beast came around again, he didn't want to be caught rusty.

There were a handful of empty bottles lying in a pile next to a coil of rope on the far edge of this one particular dock. Spot scooped them up in his arms and set them up on a beam, one next to another next to the next until five were lined up like sitting ducks. Trying not to remember the last time he had provided the same set-up, he backed away, well past the amount of space between the bottles and where he had stood that long-ago afternoon with Red Woods. He kept moving until the length was doubled and the five bottles were mere marbles in the distance.

He'd only just aimed and let fly a perfect shot at the closest bottle when he heard it: the heavy footsteps of someone coming up behind him, oblivious to the noise they were making. They weren't sneaking up on Spot. No, it was almost as if they wanted him to know they were coming around.

Coming across as if he couldn't care less that he was no longer alone, Spot lazily stood there and waited. Part of him hoped it was Red coming to see him at last—and grovel, he smirked, there should be plenty of groveling—while the more vindictive part prayed that it was the Beast skulking up behind him, thinking him easy prey. Ha! He'd show him!

"I've been lookin' all over for ya. Thought I might find you here."

But it wasn't the Beast. It wasn't Red, either. And, with a disappointed scowl, Spot hefted his slingshot back up as he tried to tune out that all-too-familiar voice. Perfectly aware that Cinder Harrow was slinking her way closer and closer to him, he pointedly stood there again, straight and as tall as he could manage, eyeing the second bottle along the beam. He imagined Cinder shrunken enough to fit inside the glass bottle. Smirking to himself, he aimed with his slingshot and hit it dead center with a resounding crash.

"Nice shot," she observed. Her husky voice was right behind his ear. Ever so silent on feet that tread like a cat when she willed them to, she'd gotten even closer than he expected. Or wanted.

He bristled and tried to shake it off. "Not now, Cinder," he warned her.

"You always had a good eye," Cinder continued as she moved closer behind him. If she heard the warning in his voice, she pretended she hadn't. "Well, more or less."

"What do you want?"

"You," she said simply. "But I'll settle for something a little less satisfying if I have to."

"Oh, yeah?" Smash. The next shooter absolutely obliterated the third bottle, sending glass shatters all over the wood. "And what's that?"

"I saw your blondie the other day," Cinder told Spot, changing the subject with a chuckle. "You... what did you call her? Red?"

That got just the reaction Cinder had expected. Not the one she hoped for—it would've been nice to hear Spot say he'd finally given up on the tailor's daughter—but the way he stiffened, his grip going so tight on the wood of his slingshot that she half expected it to snap... that was exactly what she expected of Spot. She knew damn well that it was only his limited code of honor that stopped him from taking a swing at a lady that kept her safe from his infamous temper, and she fully intended to use that to her advantage as best she could.

"Red," she went on to say, a little mock grin teasing the ends of her lips, "what a silly name. She's a right little Goldilocks, your blondie. How's that, Spot? Maybe we should call her Goldie."

Spot could tell that she was trying to get a rise out of him and quickly bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the bait. With the help of Scotch—still bitter, and a little hopeful, truth be told, since Cinder scorned him—Spot had managed to avoid Cinder once everything with Red turned sour. There used to be the time that he needed a girl like Cinder to help him take his mind off of Red; now, though, Red lingered in his thoughts and he wanted her to stay there. He'd deal with that on his own, without the likes of Cinder.

And yet... and yet she'd found him again, despite his best attempts otherwise. He turned around against his better judgment and was rewarded with a stare that made Spot think of a cat watching a mouse hole. Damn it, he was the mouse!

Spot refused to meet her hungry glare, choosing to look her over without once looking her dead in the eyes. He wondered what Cinder was up to—or, rather, what had she been up to already that night. Using the moonlight he could see that she had a dry streak of old dirt stretching across one cheek and there, right by her left elbow, most of a stray leaf had found its way there, nestled in thick hair that resembled something like a rat's nest. She'd been a good time once but now he just felt pity for her.

Pity, or perhaps pure annoyance that she couldn't—or wouldn't—take a hint and leave him the hell alone. And to bring up Red like that... he couldn't even look her way any longer without the heat of a fiery anger started to build up inside of him.

"If you knew what was good for ya," Spot drawled in that lazy way that fortunately came so easy to him. "I wouldn't go on talkin' about her to me." In order to make his point, he turned his back purposely on her again.

It didn't quite work, though. To the world, he was indifferent but to Cinder? Her ears perked up just like the corners of her grin.

"What for?" she asked, thinking she'd finally won. "Oh, don't tell me you're still smartin' over her rejectin' you. Come on, Spot, you know there's always room for you in my bed."

Spot, trying so hard not to let Cinder rattle him, had just about hit his limit. In response to her purr, his hand gave a jerk and, when he let the second-to-last shooter he had left let fly out of the sling, it veered off crazily, missing his target by a long shot until a sad little splash told him it found its home in the riverbed.

Cinder's grating little laugh was exactly like a cat scratching its claws against a slate. "I think I struck a nerve there."

And she was right. Everything, from the inherent purr to the damn leaf that was stuck in her hair, it was enough to make Spot lose his mind. Or, at the very least, his temper. He couldn't stand to hear Cinder use Red's name any more than he could stomach her suggestion that he might just be desperate enough to turn to her affection again.

Not any more.

Spot reached into his pocket and, after a second's search, his fingers closed on the thing he was looking for: the last of the five shooters he'd had with him that night. He rolled the little slug between his thumb and his forefinger, keeping his back to Cinder for a moment longer, before he plucked it up and nestled it right into the worn sling. Only then, sporting a severe frown that made Cinder flinch when he turned to face her, did he raise his slingshot and take aim again.

Cinder's laugh was a memory. Her strange cat's eyes glittered in the moonlight, wide and just a little panicked as they focused on the weapon being directed right at her. "What do you think you're doing, Conlon?" she demanded.

His eyes were like ice despite the heat in his voice. "I'm gonna give you to the count of three to get the hell out of here before I shoot."

"You wouldn't dare," Cinder hissed.

"You can work your machine with only one hand," Spot said coldly, lowering his sight so that he was aiming his slingshot at the thumb on her left hand. She'd pushed him too far now for him to ever think of giving in. "One..."

"You're going to regret this!"

"Two..."

Cinder never waited until three. There was no such thing as an idle threat when Spot Conlon was the one making it. Cursing under her breath as she fled, Cinder slipped through the shadows until she was well past the docks, hidden in a place where she could still watch Spot from a distance though he had no idea she was there.

Spot nodded in satisfaction. "Three," he murmured under his breath and, barely taking the time to aim properly, he shot at the two bottles left standing on the wooden beam. He nodded at a job well done when the one on the farthest right disappeared in a satisfying smash.

Then, having used up all of the shooters he brought with him, Spot tucked his trusty slingshot into his back pocket, tugged his cap down a little more snugly on his head and decided that the docks weren't the place of solitude he was looking for any longer. He started to head back down to the dirt ground—from her corner, Cinder slipped a little further into the shadows, making sure she couldn't be seen—wondering if he dared a quick trip back to the pub for the first night since the Beast's attack in Brooklyn.

He just might've gone that way, too, if it wasn't for the sudden sound of heeled shoes thudding awkwardly in the dirt. Glancing up with a meaningful scowl in case it was Cinder, daringly come back to finish what she'd come to say, Spot looked up in time to see that there was another figure out at night by his normally empty dock. And he didn't need the splash of moonlight shining against her honey-blonde hair as she ran for him to see that it wasn't Cinder.

Red.

Whether she meant to or not, Red was running towards him but there was no way she could've seen him standing there. Her head was kept down, she was rubbing at her eyes—she was crying, Spot realized with a fierceness that surprised him. He might've fooled himself that he didn't really so much care what happened to the girl as long as she was safe but that's all he'd done: fool himself. His very instinct was to find the bastard that caused Red to shed a single tear and soak him within an inch of his life.

Spot's hands itched to reach for his cane or his slingshot, but his heart had different plans. He started toward, forgetting that the last few weeks had happened at all, forgetting that he'd done enough—even if he didn't know what it was—to make Red want nothing to do with him at all.

Having moved forward, he kept his unblinking stare at the path she was taking and, with one sidestep to the left, managed to position his body right in her way. He couldn't stop himself. Spot wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her, to make her look into his eyes and tell him what had happened to make her cry. And then he would fix it. He would take care of her. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

After all, wasn't that what he'd been doing all along?

His plan to get in her way worked too, to a point. Red, the tears still flowing freely, was blinded in her haste to get away from Tommy. No one in the world could've stopped her in her flight—no one, that is, except for a thin and wiry newsboy who was stronger than he looked and probably could've frozen her in her tracks anyway with one hard look from his blazing cyan eyes. She bumped right into his side, pausing only to glance up and murmur her apologies, but found herself absolutely speechless when she discovered it was Spot standing right in front of her expectantly.

After everything that had happened to her, that was just too much. Probably because, the instant she looked into those piercing eyes of Spot's, she felt safer than she had been in ages. And she knew she shouldn't feel that way, which only made the contrariness of that exact moment even harder for her to bear. So she did the only thing she could think of: she moved away.

Red squeaked, stifling a cry and tensing before quailing away from him. Running right into Spot, right then, right after Tommy had given her such a fright, it was both a blessing and a curse and Red didn't know herself if she should keep on running or give in and let Spot be her guard dog once again. But she didn't have to know. Having her so near for the first time in so long, Spot made the decision first.

Reaching out, he took her gently by the arm and gave a little resistance when she didn't notice and tried to hurry away. She froze and, turning her frightened eyes on Spot, he nodded assuredly over at her. Red stopped fighting him at once and, when Spot pulled her close and into his waiting embrace, she only hesitated for a moment.

Holding her close, Spot breathed out her name—"Red"—and she exhaled in unison before finally discovering what was right and allowing herself to fall into his arms.

Long after Charlotte ran off and away from him, Tommy Sanders lingered on that end of Brooklyn while he wondered what he should do next. He could smell the river from where he stood, his back up against the sooty brick wall, his head tilted back to stare despondently up at the mocking moon. His chest was tight, like he was being squeezed, and he took sharp, shallow breaths, trying to ignore the must and the fish and the way the overall churning of the East River a few blocks over made the air heavy and his insides curdle.

Or maybe that was just the shame and regret at causing Charlotte to actually run away from him in fear.

He could've run after her, but even Tommy knew enough about a lady's reaction than to try. There was no mistaking the panic on her face or the terror in her wide, staring brown eyes. He hadn't known himself when he was grabbing her, demanding answers, but the childlike stare, accusing and fearful, that was enough to bring him around. He couldn't stand to have her look up at him like that again.

So Tommy didn't turn on his heel to follow Charlotte, even if that was what he wanted to do. He knew better. Charlotte would have to return home eventually, if she hadn't already taken to that path. She cared far too much about her father to cause him any undue worry, especially after the night she didn't come home and Madge was found murdered. Tommy shook his head at that memory. He never found out from Charlotte where she was that night—he knew she wasn't with Madge—but he had his suspicions.

The boy in the red suspenders, Tommy thought with a bitter sigh he couldn't keep back.

Worse, he could remember with vivid clarity the first time he came face to face with Spot Conlon, that evening when he was out walking with Charlotte after their engagement. At night, when he couldn't sleep and he worried that Charlotte might be marrying him more for her father's sake rather than for him, Tommy dwelt on the way she looked at Conlon, that no-good, poor and worthless newsboy, and how she never looked at him in such a way. Even now, more than a month since that night, he couldn't shake the feeling that Charlotte pined for Conlon. He knew, for all his care, that Conlon hadn't given up on Charlotte, even if he should have. Those darn boys that kept insisting on lurking beneath Char's window told Tommy that.

And, no matter how kindly, fiercely or stubbornly Tommy tried to send them away, they kept coming. Spot Conlon's boys insisted on trying to protect their leader's friend with all they had. If only they knew that there was nothing they had to protect Charlotte from—she was never in any danger. And, if she was, then Tommy would take care of it. He had always been looking out for her best interests, always, even when she didn't know it herself.

Besides, he thought with a possessive surge of anger, Charlotte wasn't Spot's friend. If Tommy had it his way, she wouldn't be anything to the street rat. She was too good for Conlon.

Sometimes Tommy feared she was too good for him.

Though he took the journey back to his side of Brooklyn slowly, one part of him hoped that he might overtake Charlotte and possibly explain his behavior back there. He wasn't sure he would be able to, and he wouldn't blame her for ignoring him just then, so when he came up on his street, he wasn't too upset that he hadn't found her. She'd been running quicker than he ever would've given her credit for; there was every chance that she made it back long before him. Because, with the Beast as real of a threat these last few weeks as he'd ever been, where else would she have gone?

Tommy approached the lamppost on the corner, the flickering flame a sign that he was almost home. Not that he was looking forward to it—he didn't fancy having to explain to his father where Charlotte had got off to, or worse, her father. He almost wished that one of those darn newsboys would be lurking underneath if only he could vent out some of his frustrations but he could already see that the street was empty.

What a pity. He supposed the most recent pest had nipped off to an alley somewhere for a little sleep. At the very least, it made sense considering the only way he managed to whisk Charlotte out on their nighttime stroll without being seen was because the gangly boy who was out there earlier had his head up against the pole and his eyes closed. Now he was gone and Tommy was all alone.

"Look at you, Tommy, a sad sack and no mistake. She left you, didn't she?"

Well, maybe not so alone.

Like she had a habit of doing, Cinder Harrow simply melted from the shadows until Tommy noticed that she must've been standing there for some time. He wondered idly if she'd been waiting for him before deciding it didn't matter. Cinder wasn't Charlotte and for Tommy—and Spot—that was all that counted.

He looked her over, from top to bottom, his eyes traveling from the stray leaf that was nestled towards the ends of Cinder's ratty dark hair, down past her ill-fitting blouse, all the way to the cracked boots that were damp at the tips. It seemed like he wasn't the only one who took a walk down past the East River that night.

"Oh," Tommy said, and he didn't even bother to hide his disappointment, "it's you."

"Oh, it's you," mimicked Cinder with a nasty sneer. She was riled up enough following the scene with Spot down on the docks, The last thing she wanted, after walking all this way to tip Tommy Sanders off about what she'd seen, was to deal with his less-than-enthusiastic welcome. She huffed. "Tell me, is that all the thanks I get? After all I done for you?"

"You know, you've got a bit of a leaf in your hair," was all he said. "Right there, right on the side."

Cinder batted away at her hair angrily. "Don't try to put me off. You know why I'm here."

"Do I?"

"Come on already. Don't waste my time. You're a smart guy, Sanders. You can figure out what I'm after."

"Do we have to do this now? I just want to get inside and pretend this night never happened." Exhaling softly, he went on to mumble, "Some birthday," under his breath.

"It's your birthday?"

Tommy couldn't imagine why she bothered asking. "Yes."

Cinder nodded at him. "Happy birthday, then."

Tommy was a little bewildered by her comment. Still, he told her thanks because it would've been rude not to before giving his head a small, clearing shake. It was obvious that Cinder came to see him with something on her mind and equally as obvious that she didn't intend to leave until she had said her piece. He sighed. "All right, fine. Have it your way. You want to hear it from me? It didn't work. None of it. You're right... Char, she's gone and I couldn't stop her."

"I know."

"You do?"

"'Course I do." And then, because Tommy deserved to feel as wounded as she did, Cinder told him: "You see, she's with him."

It must have worked. He certainly let out a sound like a wounded pup, whimpering almost as he hung his head. She thought that that would make her glad but it didn't. The way he reacted just made Cinder angry. A real man, Cinder felt, should've been wounded but, rather than lick their wounds, he should've used that pain to lash back and go after his girl, dragging her back with him.

But all Tommy did was turn on his heel, a sad little puppy heading away with his tail between his legs. His hands were fumbling at his neck and, for a split second of delicious morbidity, Cinder wondered if he was trying to do himself in, pulling tightly on the knot still tied around his throat like he was. But then the black, red and white bowtie fell away in his hand and, stuffing the fabric in his pocket, he slowly made his way towards the stairwell, dragging his heels the whole time.

He never once turned behind him to look at Cinder again. There was no reason to. For all her posturing and hissing, he had nothing to fear from the factory girl. She alone knew what he was capable of.

And though she knew better than to threaten him, Cinder didn't appreciate him turning his back on her. It was bad enough Spot passed her along, a dirty little toy he no longer wanted to play with, before going ahead to threaten her with a slingshot. She wouldn't let Tommy Sanders act like he was better than her.

"You promised!" It didn't matter to her that her voice rose in pitch on that last word. Tommy pretended he couldn't hear her anyway. "You said that once she was yours, Spot would be all mine. You promised!"

His boot was on the first step when Cinder's yells echoed off the brick wall beside him. He stopped, waited for a breath, his foot poised to take that next step before he turned around and went back down to the dirt instead.

Tommy stalked forward slowly, eerily and menacingly advancing towards her. That air of disappointment was fading away, replaced by something else. That lost look was gone; only a blank expression remained. Cinder held her breath, wondering if she had gone too far before she let the air out and, deciding that he damn well had it coming, let Tommy have it.

Despite the fact that he was towering over her, almost a head taller. Despite the fact that this was the very image of a man teetering on the edge. Despite all of that, Cinder mustered up every ounce of bitterness and spite she had left and, tilting her head back so that she was glaring up at him, she said so coldly that icicles dripped from the two words: "You promised."

"I told you, it didn't work."

"Make it work!"

Tommy leaned in and matched her, hiss for hiss. "You're no better than me, Cinder, so stop pretending. You knew the risks when you agreed."

A spark of electricity jumped from the tip of his chin down to the crown of her head. There was barely an inch separating the two of them, they were that close; the spark made Cinder wince at the sharp pain but, proud as ever, she didn't move. Even when Tommy exhaled softly again, his breath hot on her skin, Cinder didn't even twitch.

She was fuming, just as intense. "Yeah, and I only agreed 'cause Madge said I could trust you," she spat out.

His blank expression flickered, a frown tugging at his lips, before Tommy shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we both know she was quite wrong about that."

And then, turning his sights away from Cinder—she was relieved, but she'd be damned if she let him know that—Tommy glanced down at the dirt, his hand shoved back in his pocket. When he yanked it back out again, there was something grasped tightly in his fist. He had shoved whatever it was into her hand before she could react, pressing the crisp fabric tightly against her palm and walking away.

At first she thought it was his bowtie. Tommy was already on his way back to the stairwell before Cinder opened her hand up and saw the bundle of red that he had pressed against it. But it wasn't his bowtie, it couldn't be, not when the red was as dark as blood and there was no sign of the white or black checks that made up the design of the tie he had been wearing. Curious in spite of herself, Cinder gave her hand a small shake and watched in surprise as twin ends of long red fabric spilled out.

It was a fresh pair of red suspenders, barely worn.


	15. Hold on to the Night

"Should we be here?"

There was quaver in Red's voice that only had a tiny bit to do with how worried she was, sneaking into the Brooklyn Navy Yard well after dark. Though she said should we be here, the unsaid meaning of should I be here with you was clear. Spot, holding tightly to her hand, just like he had been ever since he told her to follow him and, most surprisingly, she did, pretended that he hadn't heard it.

"Don't worry 'bout it," Spot told her, careful to keep his voice down despite what he said. "Barker won't catch us. Not tonight."

"Barker?"

"Yeah. He's the new commandant." With his free hand, Spot pointed past them, across the yard. If Red squinted, she could just about make out a large white house all the way at the end. "That's the commandant's quarters. He's got no reason to come down here, 'specially this late. So long as no sailors find us here, we're fine. The others don't care about a street rat coming to sniff around an old, abandoned shed so far off from Admiral's Row."

Spot lost Red somewhere around the mention of the sailors. Remembering with clarity the gap-toothed, tattooed, grizzled old sailor that grabbed her so many months ago, Red shivered and drew in closer to Spot. Just in case.

It was funny but, ever since she fled from Tommy and ran right into Spot's embrace, thinking of the sailor was the first time she felt frightened at all once she got over her shock of actually running right into Spot. He'd taken one look at her disheveled state, her eyes red from crying, and grabbed her hand. Spot never gave her the chance to argue. He just started bringing her that way, heading directly toward the shipyard. And while Red wondered if she should feel frightened, she couldn't deny the relief that took over.

Spot was there. He was protecting her.

It was like old times again.

At least, that's what she told herself. The alternative was too unbearable to think about... though, if she really was with the boy in red suspenders, maybe she did deserve what would happen next for allowing him to bring her so far from the part of Brooklyn she knew.

Red gave a little shiver at that thought. Spot felt her tremor; her hand had given a little jerk. "Are ya cold?" he asked, concerned. "It's chilly out."

Even though it was late in September and well past sunset, Red hadn't felt the chill until he brought it up. Tommy hadn't thought to stop and get Red's cape from her apartment before their walk so she was still in her shirtwaist and skirt and not much more. But that wasn't why she was shivering and she told Spot so.

He didn't believe her. His brow furrowed and his tight hold on her hand increasing ever so slightly, he gave it a little tug. "Come on. We're almost there."

She didn't know exactly where he was taking her. The Brooklyn Navy Yards, a forty-acre lot on the East River, in Wallabout Basin, was made up of countless docks and berths, half-built ships, ship parts and completed ships everywhere she looked. After one near trip, Red kept her eyes down as she followed Spot's lead, careful of where she tread in case she slipped on some siding or coils of rope that might've been left out. Spot, for his part, walked with his head held high. He obviously knew where he was going.

Close to the edge of the Navy Yard's property, but not too visible from the outskirts, there were a handful of battered wood sheds standing there. An air of abandonment surrounded them. There weren't any gas lights to make them stick out and it was only by chance and the moon up above that allowed Red to make them out. Pretty soon, there was no doubt in her mind that that was where Spot was bringing her.

Right about then was when her heart started to quicken, her palms started to sweat and Red began to second-guess her decision to follow him without any fight. She had sudden visions of Mr. Hyde's ramshackle place in London and the terrible things that went on right outside. The moon overhead and the stillness in the air when the wind died down reminded her of Wuthering Heights and the ghosts that haunted the grounds.

She shivered again.

Spot felt the slickness on the inside of her hand against his and the way she she shivered a second time but, too preoccupied with the state he'd found her and way too pleased to have found her again, he said nothing. Though, most regrettably, he did let go of her hand once they reached the sheds and, heading straight to the second one inland, gestured that she should stay where she was.

Red spared about one second's thought to escape, decided that she'd never make it out the way Spot had brought her in and resigned herself to trusting Spot. She had once, after all, and despite the blood and the rumors and the red suspenders, he'd never given her reason not to trust him. She would have to remember that.

Oblivious to how Red was watching him so skeptically, Spot moved aside a large piece of wood that stood up in front of the shed, a plank nearly as tall as Spot and just as wide, revealing a door that was a slot stronger than it appeared. A keyhole was positioned right above the knob and, for a moment, Red wondered if that was where the key Spot wore around his neck belonged to. But, if it was, he didn't use it. He didn't need to. The door was already unlocked.

"Wait here," Spot told her, and then he disappeared inside.

Hugging herself, fighting off a sudden chill as a September wind came whipping from out of nowhere and sent goosebumps up and down her arms and legs, Red waited in the darkness, waited for Spot to come back out and tell her what exactly he was doing. Because, one thing was for sure: she had no idea.

He didn't leave her out to wait for long. There was a snap and a crackle, and then another, before Spot reappeared in the doorway. "You can come in now."

It was obvious what he'd done. As soon as Red moved forward she could see the four candles—one in each corner—great big lumps of wick and wax that were set up in the one small room the shed allowed. There wasn't much space, just enough for a couple of people to lie down flat on their backs without being cramped, and apart from a spare change of trousers hung up on a nail, a folded up blanket that lay shadowed in another corner and two pillows lying on top, the room was empty.

And then there was Spot. Scratching the back of his neck, looking around curiously as if this were the first time he'd ever stepped inside the shed, he waited for her to say something. Only then, when she didn't, did he—

"So, Red," he said, and there was no denying the touch of pride in his voice, "what do ya think?"

Red didn't know what to think—but she certainly had a hundred questions for Spot. How did he know this shed was here? Why had he brought her to this place? Where did he get the lamp from? The blankets? The pillows? With a turning stomach, he thought of Cinder Harrow's scowl and Madge's fury when she heard that Red knew Spot Conlon. Had they visited this room before?

The words were out before she could take them back: "How many girls have you brought here?"

Whatever Red had to say in response to his question, that was the last thing Spot expected. His expression went guarded and closed at once. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it certainly looks cozy." Red cast an eye around again, focusing on the folded up blanket and the pillow. Someone had obviously slept here before. But who? She shook her head. Maybe she didn't want to know. "Never mind. I didn't mean anything, really. I was just wondering."

Spot shrugged. "Sometimes you get locked out. You can sleep on the streets if ya want, but you're likely to be rolled or worse if ya do. I learned long ago it pays to be prepared."

He turned his back on her then and, grabbing the blanket from the corner, scattering the pillows, he shook the blanket out a couple of times and spread it out to cover the middle of the floor. Just when he was done, he backed away and, his hands slipped under his suspender straps, checking his handiwork, he broke up the quiet with a single word: "None."

Red, who was kneeling down, rubbing the flat of her palm soothingly against the blanket, surprised to find it was so soft, she didn't understand. "What?"

"I'm answerin' ya. None. I never brought no one here before. Well," he said, correcting himself, "no girl here before. Just you."

Her stomach, while it still felt queasy, there was no longer any dread weighing her down. No, she recognized this sensation. The butterflies were back, those nervous pests, flapping like mad. She struggled for something to say and, glancing down at the rich red color of Spot's blanket, she pointed out uselessly, "It's red."

"I told you before," Spot said slyly, smirking for the first time that evening. "My favorite color's red. Remember?"

And so he had told her. Once, long ago, when a little girl admitted her favor for the color and a little boy found himself lying to make her feel better. But now... maybe now it was true.

Spot moved so that he was towering over her. Red hadn't risen from her knelt position and, while he hovered right there, the nervous butterflies made her too weak to stand—which was exactly how Spot wanted it. "Now, listen to me, Red," he said authoritatively. It was his leader's voice, the voice that brooked no disagreement. "I want you to take a seat. Right there, right on this blanket."

There was no argument. Since she was tired as it was and the blanket was right there, she did exactly what Spot asked. It felt good to be told what to do right then; her head still spinning from what happened with Tommy, she didn't trust herself to have to do her own thinking just yet. Something told her that there was a good chance that it meant she would start running wildly again. And that only meant that she'd be even more lost than she already was.

"Good," Spot said once she was sitting. "Now that you're comfortable, tell me. Tell me what happened. Why were you runnin'? Who made you cry?"

Though she didn't quite know why, Red was taken aback to hear the heat in Spot's voice. Where she was frightened before, Spot was angry—but he wasn't angry at her. That much was clear. Who, then, was he angry with? It never once dawned on her that it could be Tommy, not when there was any way he could know what happened, but she was so shaken and, deep down, a touch angry herself. Taking a deep steadying breath, she looked down at her hands and, in a flat tone, she began to tell Spot exactly what had happened.

Spot didn't once interrupt though, as she glanced daringly up at him during some of the more difficult parts of her story, she saw that his expression had darkened considerably as she told him about Tommy's birthday and the walk that followed afterward.

There was a grunt and a muttered curse when she mentioned Tommy's grabbing of her arm. Lifting her hand slightly so that the candles threw their shadows at the blossoming bruise on her fair skin, Spot huffed angrily. The sight made his hands flex and his fingers itch to be wrapped around Sanders' throat and it was only because he feared there was worse still to come that he kept silent.

Then, after a shaky finish, and a whisper, Red explained how Tommy tried forcing himself on her and how she ran off in tears.

He couldn't keep quiet any longer. "I'll kill him!" he burst out hotly. And, this time, his hands went straight to his slingshot in his back pocket.

That was his weapon, Red realized. His slingshot, his shooters, his cane, his fists... Spot didn't need to make an enemy bleed. He didn't need a knife to be powerful. His personality was more than enough for that, and his legend. How could she ever had thought otherwise? Still, he was dangerous, there was no doubt that he was dangerous, and Tommy, for all the wrong he'd done, he didn't deserve that.

"Please, Spot," she gasped, the blood on his shirt rising unbidden in her mind, "don't say such things!"

Her pleading had no effect on him. "I should've been there to protect you," he growled, pacing like a guard dog back and forth across the small room. "I swear, I'll kill him for this!"

"It wasn't Tommy's fault," Red insisted. She knew she had to calm him down. Forgetting that she had been crying, she tried to explain to Spot: "He was... he was right. I'm supposed to be his bride—"

Spot whirled around, fire blazing in his cyan eyes. "That don't mean he can paw on you like that. You was cryin', Red!" His voice was risen to a shout, one that made Red flinch and quail away from him again, shrinking into the blanket. Seeing how she responded to his fury, he tried to calm down for her sake. But that didn't make him any less furious. "He shouldn't make you cry. I'd hate myself if I did that to you."

She thought of all the tears she'd shed following Madge's death and how she wouldn't allow herself to believe Spot could have done anything, no matter what it looked like or what Cinder said. And she didn't believe it, not really, no matter what color suspenders old Mrs. Pierce had thought she'd seen on that young man. But she had to know. In that instant, with Spot standing over her, and Red lost in a hide-away shed in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, she had to know.

If it was the last thing she ever asked Spot Conlon, she would know.

"Did you know a girl called Madge Harris? Did you go and call on her last month?"

Spot did a double-take. He couldn't understand where Red was coming from with that. "What's that got to do with that Sanders goon?" he asked.

"It's important to me that you answer, Spot. Please."

"Madge? I don't know... I guess I've known a Madge or two in my time. What's she look like?"

It was painful for Red to talk about her friend. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, already afraid that she would hear the answer she longed not to hear, she described Madge the best way she could: the bright smile, the bouncy curls, the kohl eyes, the way she called everyone she met "doll" or "dearie". When she got to the part about Madge and her habit of wearing lipstick and kissing everyone on their cheeks, Spot snapped his fingers.

"Yeah, yeah... I remember her—"

Red couldn't keep the gasp back. Recalling Cinder's words with a pain that was worse than the bruise already on her wrist, she assumed that they were true. "So you did... you used to see her?" she said in disbelief. "She was your girl?"

"What? That Madge? God no!"

"Really?" It was as if a huge weight was lifted off of her shoulder. She couldn't bear to think that Madge would've kept that from her, or that Madge had shared something with Spot—Red's Spot—that Red hadn't. "You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

Spot was flabbergasted. "Why the hell would I lie to ya? When have I ever lied to ya, Red?"

"It's just... when Cinder told me..."

"Ha, Cinder, I shoulda known." Spot scowled. It seemed as if Cinder wasn't lying when she said she saw Red. "That girl, she was a pal of Cinder's. God knows how they were pals, seein' how she was a fancy dame. She liked to slum it around with us street rats for awhile before she up and disappeared. But I ain't seen her in ages." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why you askin', Red? Why's it so important?"

"Because she was my friend, too."

"Was?"

"She's dead now," Red said flatly.

"I ain't followin' ya." And he wasn't. He still couldn't see how this had anything to do with Red, friend or not, unless Cinder told her more than she had any right to. "'Sides, she can't be dead. I read the papes everyday. I woulda known."

"She was in the paper, Spot," she answered. "Marjorie Harris."

Spot drew in his breath sharply. "The one that they're all pretendin' had nothing to do with the Beast? That was Madge?" Removing his cap from his head, Spot ran his ink-stained fingers through his hair before tossing the cap to the floor. He looked up, gazing into the flickering flame of the candle, and it hit him; at first he didn't understand but suddenly... suddenly he was seeing things a lot more clearly. "Why are you bringin' this up? What are you tryin' to ask me?"

The way Red didn't answer at first only made Spot's suspicions all the stronger. He narrowed his piercing gaze on her and she gulped. "She died the last night I saw you," she murmured. "The night Scotch made me come down to the lodging house to see you, when you were... you know..."

"Drunk," supplied Spot without any shame. So it was Scotch's fault, he thought before turning his attention back to Red. "And?"

"Yes, and... and—"

He remembered that night. How could he have forgotten? And it him again. He knew exactly what she was trying to say. "And I was covered in blood? That's it, right? That's why you've been so afraid. That's why you've been a scared of me? You think I did it."

"I don't know what I thought," she admitted sheepishly. "I only know in my heart now that you could've never done anything like that."

"I'm so glad you feel that way, Charlotte." His tone was mocking, a way for him to hide the pain he felt at her words. "I wouldn't like to think you was sittin' here with a murderer." He waved his hand angrily at the door. "Maybe you should go. I might gut ya in your sleep or something and then your damn precious Tommy would never have the pleasure of touchin' ya again."

She reacted as if he had kicked her. "Spot, please—"

"Don't."

Utterly defeated, Red couldn't understand how bad this could have gotten, and so fast, too. All she had wanted, all she had needed since she left the Working Boys' Home and discovered that her friend was killed, was to hear straight from Spot that he hadn't had any part in it. That Madge's death really was at the Beast's hand and that everything else that happened was just a terrible coincidence. But now here she was, having gotten her secret wish and seeing Spot at least one more time, and it might just be that last time.

"I know you didn't do it and I'm sorry for ever thinking so," she said quickly before he could cut her off again. She climbed back to her feet, wringing her hands in front of chest, pleading with him. "You've gotta believe me!"

"Why should I?"

And it exploded right out of her: "Because I love you!"

Maybe she was a romantic. But, just then, she also felt a little giddy and whole lot desperate for Spot to understand what it had taken her so long to realize. And in that moment, as the words flew out of her mouth, she knew them to be true. That was why she couldn't find it in her to love Tommy that way. That was why she couldn't stop thinking about Spot, no matter what she feared him capable of.

Red loved Spot. It had just taken her that long to discover the truth for herself.

Spot looked across the room at Red, the way she was panting, the way her chest heaved so much so that it drove him crazy inside. He blinked once, almost lazily, and when his eyes were locked on her again, the lust was obvious. He didn't leer, she was too precious for that, but he refused to blink again if it meant he had to lose sight of her even for a second.

She loved him.

He stalked toward her slowly, some of his old swagger returning as he approached, his hand reaching for her. Red waited on tenterhooks for his reply, still breathing heavily, her chest still rising and falling hypnotically with her release. Spot lifted his hand reached for her face, rubbing the side of his callused thumb down the length of her chin.

Red didn't know how she expected him to respond. Perhaps he could've answered in kind, confessing his love for her, but she knew very well that that wasn't at all like the Spot Conlon she loved even if that might've made her feel better about her own admission. She would've thought he would answer cockily that he knew all along and just was waiting for her to figure it out—that certainly suited him.

But he didn't do that. Instead, his piercing eyes drawn down to her lips, he said softly, "Did he ever kiss you?"

"What?"

"Sanders." His thumb tensed against her feverish skin at just the mere mention of her fiancé, but he didn't move away. "Did he ever kiss you? Not like he did tonight, that don't count. Did he ever kiss you when you wanted him to?"

"No," she told him honestly. "I... I don't know why, but I never let him."

"I know why."

Red gasped at the way Spot was caressing her skin, drawing circles on her cheek with the side of his thumb. It felt so good. "You do?"

"Because," Spot explained, and his voice dripped with possessiveness, "you're mine."

And just like Tommy had done but infinitely better, Spot cupped her chin in both of his hands and pressed his lips right against hers. As he deepened the kiss and Red let him, he let go of her face and let his hands roam to the back of her head. Her hair was pulled out of her face, the honey blonde waves a knot tied at the nape of her neck. He had the sudden urge to run his fingers though her soft hair.

So he did.

With one quick tug, Spot undid her ribbon and let her hair settle freely down her back. He let the ribbon slip through his fingers before he started to lose himself in her hair and her kiss—

—the red ribbon was only the first piece to fall.


	16. We Belong

Red woke up the next morning a little sore, a little chilled and more than a little content.

The soreness, she mused with a flush that colored her cheeks scarlet, was certainly explainable after last night. The chill, too, considering she'd fallen asleep wearing nothing but her chemise. The red blanket Spot had sprawled out on the floor was lying beneath them, a rumpled mess; the heat that flared between Red and Spot had made it unnecessary. Though, if it wasn't for the weight of his arm on her, Red thought she might curl up in the blanket now that it was morning.

As for the absolute feeling of contentment that cocooned her and made her feel safe and sound at last... well, the arm slung protectively over her, the one resting against her slightly heaving chest, it had a lot to do with that. The arm and, of course, the boy it belonged to.

Spot was still sleeping, his head turned to face her, his nose buried in her hair. Red could hear his muffled snores coming from right below her ear and had to work extra hard to resist the urge to giggle every time he exhaled and his hot breath tickled the stray blonde strands that were settled against her neck. Because she didn't want to wake him up just yet. Red wanted to bask in the afterglow of what they'd done together just a little bit longer.

Even so, so much of last night was a blur: from her regrettable confrontation with Tommy to accidentally running into Spot and then their hiding out in this shed, tucked securely on the edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The accusations, the finally realized but never said fears and, most of all, Red shouting out her love for him...

Admitting to Spot—and to herself—that it was him who she loved had been a huge and reckless decision made on the spur of the moment. And while she fervently believed it was the right one, and she wouldn't take it back now even if she could, it left Red with many more decisions that she would soon be forced to make. There was her father to consider, how much work he'd put into her engagement with Tommy... and the dress, too.

And Tommy... how could she ever explain to him that she couldn't marry him? Because she couldn't. Even if she could set aside her feelings for Spot—and they filled up her whole chest now that they were free, making Red feel as inflated as a balloon—there was no possible way she could go on with the charade. There was no way at all that she could don that white gown her father had slaved over and make Tommy Sanders a suitable virgin bride. No... not after last night.

Then there was Spot. Slowly turning her body under his outstretched hand, she moved so that she was lying on her side, watching Spot as he slept. His cheek was nestled in her hair, using it as a pillow; she felt the pull and, trying not to wince, slid her head a bit further away until he was actually lying on the mangled old pillow instead and her hair was finally free. Like she'd had cause to think once before, Red marveled at how young Spot appeared when he was sleeping. His sun-beaten skin seemed smoother and clear without the worry lines or habitual smirks to crease it; in his sleep, his lips actually were quirked in a light-hearted grin, almost as if he was having a good dream that he would never have to share with anyone else—

—Red secretly hoped he was dreaming about her.

Spot... Spot Conlon. The biggest question she had about the future had everything to do with Spot Conlon. When it all came out, she was sure her father would eventually accept her—even if he did call her too romantic for her own good—and Tommy, though he would be hurt, she thought he would eventually understand. But what about Spot?

In the passion and the haze of the night before, it hadn't escaped Red's attention that, while she finally admitted she loved him, Spot had said no such thing to her in return. Oh, he was possessive and he made her feel wanted and, though his actions weren't really any different from how Tommy had treated her, Red let him get away with it because, in the end, she craved Spot's touch and his affection in a way she had never wanted from Tommy. She welcomed Spot's advances when he offered them, she gave herself over to him because it had felt so right, but what about now?

Her suspicions from yesterday came rushing back full force to slam Red right in the chest. She gasped and, forgetting Spot was sleeping right beside her, sat straight up like a jack-in-the-box. Spot's arm slipped right off of the silky material of her chemise, thumping against the hard ground underneath the blanket, but he didn't stir. Red wasn't quite sure she would've cared if he had. What if... what if her worries were right?

Maybe, she thought as she scooted away from Spot, maybe he had lied about his hide-away. Maybe she wasn't the only he girl he'd brought there. Could she be just another Cinder to him? Or another Madge? Good for a good time, then forgotten, cast aside like yesterday's rubbish?

A chill ran through Red then that had nothing to do with her lack of dress. However, her stomach churning and her mind full of worries again, worries and suspicions and fears that rivaled how she felt when she first heard Madge had been killed, she was suddenly aware that she was lying in some hidden shed wearing nothing but her underclothes. Moving slowly, desperate not to wake Spot up until she was fully dressed again, Red slowly got to her feet and started the search for her scattered clothing.

She gathered her linen shirtwaist blouse, her long grey skirt, both of her shoes and, after an extended hunt, one of her stockings; the other was nowhere to be found at all. After pulling her clothes on and feeling some of the embarrassed heat recede from her cheeks, she then went off in search of her ribbon to pull her hair back and out of her face. At first it also seemed like it was inexplicably missing until she saw a flash of red on the far end of the room, nearly hidden by a pile of Spot's discarded clothes.

Tiptoeing over there, the inside of her shoes clammy and strange against her bare feet, Red knelt down by the clothes, reaching for her red ribbon before something else caught her attention and she paused. Her ribbon had somehow ended up tangled in Spot's suspenders and it struck her then how faded the straps had become in the close to ten years since Red was a little girl who rewarded her new friend with a new pair.

Her hand was still hanging there, reaching out into the air. Suddenly intrigued, she swooped up the tangle of the ribbon and the suspenders and cupped them together in her palm, looking at them closely. The red of her ribbon was such a bold color; it was brand new, one she picked out in honor of Tommy's birthday all those hours ago. And Spot's suspenders, nearly a decade old, were more a dark pink, if anything.

In fact, she thought, one could hardly say there were red at all...

"Hey, you. Watcha doin'?"

Red gave a little start. The ribbon and the suspenders both fell from her hands.

In an instant, she managed to forget all of her worries and her insecurities the moment Spot's voice cut into her thoughts, alerting her that he was finally up. All she knew were those nervous butterflies flapping away in her belly and the way her heart started to thump-thump-thump frantically when she turned to look over her shoulder and she could see the hungry way he was watching her. Something told her that he hadn't just awoken.

Red gave him a smile that was more out of pleasure than anything else when Spot met her gaze and he said to her more shyly than she ever would've expected: "Mornin', Red."

"Good morning to you, too." She gestured needlessly at the clothes behind her. "I was just looking at your suspenders."

Spot nodded. "They were the first gift you ever gave me, the best... but they're not the best anymore. Last night—" and Red, remembering it all too well herself, felt her blush return "—when you said you loved me. That was the best thing I've ever been given. Consider us even now. You don't ever have to give me another thing again." Sitting up, he patted the place on the red blanket beside him. Red was too far away for him for his liking. "Come sit with me."

But Red couldn't. Spot's words echoed in her ears: consider us even now. How could they be? She loved him. He never said he loved her. And maybe it wasn't what Spot Conlon would do, but what Red did last night wasn't something that Charlotte Woods ever would've done, either. No, they were nowhere near even.

Spot grew rigid and cold at Red's obvious hesitation, assuming the worst. "You don't still think I had anything to do with Madge's death, do ya?"

"No! No... it's not that, Spot, I—"

His eyes went icy and hard. "Don't tell me you're worryin' over Sanders."

"Well, no..."

"Good." Spot relaxed a little. "Then what's wrong? Was it something—"

"No," Red said hurriedly, interrupting him. Then, before Spot could say anything else, another suspicion, another question, anything, she blurted it out: "I told you I loved you."

"I know."

She bit down on her bottom lip, unsure if she should say what was on her mind. He was sitting there, so cocky, so sure of himself, it seemed such a stupid thing to be worrying over. But she was worrying. "You didn't say it back, Spot."

The way Red was standing there, hugging herself and gnawing nervously on her lip... if she wasn't so serious, Spot might've thought it was funny. Was that all she was worried about? He shrugged. "I didn't think I had to."

"You didn't?"

Spot allowed himself a small smirk at her dejected tone. "I thought I made it pretty obvious."

And this time, instead of waiting for Red to come to him, he drew himself up to his feet and closed the gap between them in four steps, silencing Red with a meaningul kiss before she could even think of arguing with him again.

It was easy to lose track of time in the shed. There were no windows, just the one door, and the globs of wax that had once been candles had just about burned all the way down by the time Red started worrying about her father again.

They were laying together on the blanket, Red's hair splayed out beneath her; she was using Spot's arm as a pillow now and he didn't mind either the weight of her head or the feel of her soft hair against his skin. Content and cozy, they stared up at the ceiling, watching the feeble shadows being thrown around by the dying candlelight. Neither said anything. They didn't need to. Spot was holding on to the moment, just in case it wouldn't last. Red, only too aware what was awaiting her back at home, chose not to think about it yet.

But, even so, she couldn't be blissfully ignorant forever and, as the hours ticked away, Red's stomach started to quiver, her thoughts straying to her poor father and how worried he must've been last night when Tommy returned to the apartments without her.

Suddenly, as if everything that had happened since last night was a dream that she had just woken up from, Red knew she couldn't hide out with Spot any longer. She sighed.

"Spot?"

"Yeah?"

"I think it's time I should go home."

He longed to sigh the way that Red had but knew that it wouldn't be fair to her. Instead, he just said, "I've been waitin' for ya to say that."

Lazily, he pulled himself into a sitting position, pausing so that Red could lift her head first. Spot itched to reach out to her, to take hold of her shoulder and help her up but he knew, should he do so, he wouldn't want to let go again. He kept his hands to himself. "Come on, I'll walk you back."

For a heartbeat Red thought about refusing him—if only because she couldn't imagine the look on her father's face if she walked up to the apartment with Spot in tow—but then she decided she didn't want to. She wasn't ready to leave Spot's side just yet. "Okay," she said and, a touch reluctantly but with renewed purpose, Red slowly got to her feet.

Twilight. It was the perfect time to leave. Dusk was replacing the daylight, that magical time when even a city full of greys and brown had a nice blue sheen trickling over it. The Brooklyn Navy Yard was empty of its day workers and, as the sun went down and the sky went from light blue to almost black, Red and Spot navigated their way back across town. Spot didn't say anything; unlike Tommy, he didn't feel the need to keep up an endless stream of conversation. The two of them were free to just be together. Words didn't have to get in the way.

Of course, though Red knew she had to get back home, she wasn't in as much of a hurry to get there which only meant that, despite their better attempts, the journey back was going more quickly than either one would've liked. And while it was like they had walked away a lifetime last night on their way to the Navy Yard, it seemed as if all Red had done was blink when they were coming up alongside the far end of where Brooklyn ended and the world of the docks began.

Red recognized where they were by then, she knew the landmarks and the streets even in the setting darkness, and was certain she could find the rest of her way home without Spot tagging along like her guard dog. The Working Boys' Home was in the foreground and, trying hard not to remember how she knew the path, she was confident she could make the rest of the trip alone. It was late, though she didn't know the exact hour, and it was probably time for him to turn in for the night. Just because she wasn't looking forward to her father's reaction, that didn't mean she wanted to keep Spot from sleeping indoors again.

After a few more blocks, it was obvious that that was where Spot was heading. Red stayed with him as long as she dared before she missed the street she needed to take. Unsure how to say goodbye for the evening, and hoping that perhaps she could postpone it if he followed her on to her home, she waited until she got to her turning and started in that direction.

She didn't get very far.

"No," Spot said, and he didn't mind laying his hand gently on her arm to stop her. "This way."

"Where are we going? Papa, he—"

"Your old man can wait for ya just a little long, Red." With his free hand, Spot removed the key that hung on a lace around his neck. "Come with me first. I want to show you somethin'."

Red watched Spot palm his key, her interest piqued in spite of herself. Ever since she met him again, Red had wondered what the key he wore went to; clearly, it didn't belong to the shed. There was still a little part of her that was almost wary of being alone with Spot for no good reason, but she boldly took his hand when he held it out to her. She wanted to prove to him—prove to herself—once and for all who it was that she loved.

Holding her hand now, Spot led her down Buckbees Alley and towards the side entrance of his lodging house. When they were children, they used to play games of stickball and catch and all sorts of other games in this alley and Red remembered it fondly. She had always wanted to go inside, to see the place that housed her friend, but allowing a young girl to follow him inside of the Working Boys' Home was one rule that even Spot Conlon wouldn't break. But that was so many years ago—and there was no doubt that that was exactly where he was taking her now.

She'd only gone in once before and the memory was still an unpleasant one. Red could still remember how worried she'd been that night, following Murphy, not knowing how she would find Spot when she arrived at the Boys' Home. Scotch O'Reilly had been standing out back that night, waiting to receive her. No one, she saw, was standing there now. Her spirits lifted just a little. Because she wasn't going upstairs in search of a Spot Conlon, drunk and completely out of it in the quarantine rooms.

Who even said she was going upstairs at all?

With the hand still holding tightly to his key, Spot opened the side door and pulled Red inside. It was dark on the landing and after she blinked a few times, she could make out that rickety set of stairs she knew would lead up to the first floor. Except Spot wasn't heading towards the stairs. Instead, he reached for another door to their right, one that lay hidden in the shadows.

He paused and gave her hand a light squeeze. "Do you trust me?"

"I think I always have."

Spot opened that door next, revealing another set of stairs that led down. It was so dark that no matter how many times she blinked, Red could see nothing but blackness. Suddenly Spot's question made sense. She gulped but returned his squeeze.

It was obvious that Spot had been this way countless times before. He could've taken to it blindfolded, so lightly did he tread the steps, pulling her gently behind him. For Red, she was blindfolded, the dark was so encompassing. She could see nothing, hear nothing, and only her hold onto Spot kept her from panicking. She was suddenly reminded of when she was a little girl and she was reaching into one of her father's trunks for a scrap of fabric. She tumbled in, the lid crashed down and Red was trapped in the darkness inside for what seemed like days but had only been a few minutes before her father found her and rescued her.

The dark had bothered her ever since. Not just the bleak grey of night, with the gas lamps and a bright, shining moon up above, but the total blackness that left her vulnerable and alone—

—at least she wasn't alone.

The darkness didn't last. There was a candle at the foot of the stairs. Red didn't see it but Spot's practiced hands found it easily, striking a match and illuminating the room without fumbling once—or letting go of her.

"House rules," he explained, shaking the match out. "When you're done with the lockers, put the candle out. We wouldn't want to start a fire now, would we?"

"The lockers?" Red breathed out in relief. Was that where he had taken her?

"Yeah. What I want to show ya, it's in my locker."

"All right."

Spot approached one, seemingly at random but he must've known which of the same exact doors belonged to him. He stuck the key inside, gave it a rough jiggle and the lock popped. The door swung outward.

Lifting his candle up high, Red was able to see what was so important to Spot Conlon that he locked it up and wore the key on a lace around his neck. She saw a black derby taking up most of the bottom of the square-shaped locker, and scraps of paper littered underneath. But Spot didn't reach for either of those. Instead, he pulled out a grubby handkerchief that was knotted at the top.

He had to let go of her hand at last to undo the knot—which he did, after handing the candle off to Red. Spot needed both hands to unravel the knot and, when he had, a large pile of money—bills, coins, everything—sat right in the center. She gasped at the sight and clutched the candle tightly, kneading the wax with her fingertips.

"It's money, Red," Spot said needlessly. "I've been savin'. You and me... we could leave."

She could hardly believe she had heard what Spot said. She didn't want to believe it. In the light of the candle, she could see a steely earnestness in his gaze, a determined set to his jaw and tried to find something else to catch their attention. Her eyes flickered back to his locker and, reaching out, she grabbed the stack of papers that were stowed neatly underneath the black hat.

"What's this?" she asked, rising the candle up so that could see what she was holding.

They were all newspaper clippings, some recent, others a little more yellowed with age. She scanned at the headlines: The Beast Attacks Twice: Two Victims in One Night. The Beast is Quiet, but Still on the Loose. Who is the Beast? City Stands in Fear of Phantom Killer—the Beast Strikes Again! The Beast...

The Beast... they were all articles about the Beast. Red looked over at Spot questioningly.

"I won't let him hurt anyone I love," Spot said fiercely. "I'll find him first and I'll kill him myself."

"You've kept these?" Red said in wonder. She fingered the feathered edges of the clippings. There must have been at least twenty there. "Cut them from the papers and held onto them?"

Spot nodded. "Ever since Squints—"

"Squints?"

"Yeah, Squints. He was this kid... he went missing a couple of months back. He was a good kid... I don't know what happened to him. The Beast, whatever, I promised I wouldn't let anything happen like that again. He hit Brooklyn, he got your friend, and that's too close for me. We can go, Red. Somewhere where there ain't beasts and butchers there to take you away. I'll protect you. Let me keep you safe."

Red thought of the Beast, and of the shadow that seemed to be there more times than she cared to admit. She thought of Tommy, not her Tommy but the Tommy that appeared last night, all hands and dominance. She thought of how Spot was there to save her from Tommy, just like he rescued her from that drunken man all those years ago. Spot, her guard dog.

Red placed her hand against Spot's chest, comforted by the steady beat of his heart. "You always have."

It felt right.

"So you'll go? I've got enough money. You wouldn't need anything."

"I don't need anything more than what I have, but—"

Spot's cyan eyes flashed at but. He tensed and drew back, away from the heat of Red's palm, crossing his arms over his chest. "But what?"

"Could you leave? Could you really give up Brooklyn? Just for me?"

"She did fine without me for all those years, and she'll hold her own once I'm gone again. 'Sides, it wouldn't be forever. Brooklyn will always be waitin' for me when we come back."

"What about Papa? He's happy here. I won't leave him."

That took the wind out of Spot's sails a bit. It had been easy—too easy—after last night and that afternoon to pretend that they were the only two people in the whole world. And just because Spot didn't have a family and spent most of his time looking out for himself, that didn't mean Red saw things the same way.

"Besides," Red added, "what about your newsies? You're their leader. They look up to you, Spot. They need you."

And she was right. Brooklyn might survive, but what about his boys? Scotch would never take over leadership of the Brooklyn newsies, no one else had anywhere near enough years or experience to step in and he'd be damned if he let some outsider waltz in and take everything Spot had worked so hard for ever since he stood up to Butchy and ran him out of town.

"You could never leave. And I could never ask you to. You belong here."

"And you belong with me," he told her gruffly.

"Then I belong here, too."

Spot didn't say anything else but Red could tell from the silence that followed that he—begrudgingly or not—understood what she was saying. Hesitating before walking towards him, she placed her hand on his arm. "But us leaving... it was a nice thought, Spot."

This time he didn't shake her off. Still, when he spoke, there was no denying how much her rejection had stung him, no matter how sound her reasoning. "Yeah, well, what are we supposed to do then? You really want to stay here? Fine. But it won't be with me. How could it be? After everything, you're still gonna have to marry Sanders. 'Cause, I don't know if ya forgot, but you're still promised to him."

Spot refused to get his hopes up. Even after everything that happened since yesterday, he still expected the worst from Red; it was a natural response, one he picked up during a hard life, living on the streets since the tender age of seven. So she said she loved him—what did that mean if she didn't even trust him enough to keep her safe?

Ever since the Beast encroached on his territory—because, whether or not he got Squints, Squints Fallon's disappearance was as much the Beast's fault as it was Spot's—he had wanted nothing more than to get revenge and stop the phantom killer's attacks. Then, when Red suddenly appeared after ten long years away from Brooklyn, it became more than that. He had someone to protect, someone he could save and maybe he could finally make up for his misstep with Squints. He could save her, he could get her away but there she was, telling him no. So what if they both had reasons to stay? So what—

"I'm not marrying Tommy."

Red's statement had the effect of cutting Spot's thoughts off right where they were. But that didn't make him any happier.

He sneered. "Oh, yeah? Then why are ya still wearin'—" Like his thoughts, Spot cut himself off mid-sentence. Because, once he glanced down at Red's hand, he found he couldn't finish that thought, either. "Where'd your ring go?"

Red slipped one of her slender fingers in the front pocket of her blouse. When she drew it out again, the slim golden engagement band with the diamond that Tommy Sanders had put on her ring finger was crooked on the end of her fingertip. She let it stay there long enough for Spot to see it and then dropped it securely back in her pocket.

"You took it off?" marveled Spot.

"Last night. Right before we..." It was Red's turn to leave her words hanging there. Fighting back a blush that was already staining her cheeks a dusty pink, she hurriedly said, "I have to give it back to him."

"When?"

And the words rushed out of her like a horse at the starting gate over at Sheepshead: "I was thinking now."

Which was exactly what he wanted to hear. Spot smirked confidently. "I'm going with you," he told her, using his leader voice again.

Except, this time, Red was prepared for it. This time, she was ready to argue. "No."

"Red..."

Red shook her head insistently. "No, Spot. That's something I have to do on my own."

Spot's first instinct was to fight her over it, to tell her that she really was his now and that he wanted to be there to see the look on Sanders' face when he found that out, too. But then he thought about it. Red knew the butcher's boy, she was the one promised to him. Maybe she did have to be the one to break that promise...

He nodded. "Meet me at the docks?"

"First thing tomorrow," Red said, and then, her warm brown eyes alive with the promise, "even if I have to sneak away."

Red was a little surprised at how easy it was to get Spot to agree to letting her walk back home alone; she expected him to argue longer and, when he'd had enough, to come with her regardless. So when he gave in and led her back up to the mouth of Buckbees Alley without a further fight before disappearing out onto the first floor of the Working Boys' Home, Red took the opportunity to scurry back to her father's apartment as quickly as she could before Spot changed his mind.

As she hurried, she struggled to come up with some sort of reason to give to her father for her behavior but it was just about hopeless. Maybe, she hoped, it came to her when she found Mr. Woods in the kitchen. Even more, she just prayed he wasn't waiting out front of the butcher's shop with the police again, bad news stooping his shoulders.

Despite the light and free feeling that washed over her last night and carried her through that entire day, Red hadn't forgotten the Beast or Madge, and she doubted her father had, either. With every step that took her closer home, she remembered more and more of the anxiety that hovered over Mr. Woods ever since he heard about the Beast being loose in New York. She remembered even more vividly how the threat of that monster—the reality of Madge's brutal murder—made her feel. Suddenly, a chill ran up and down her spine and Red shivered.

Maybe she shouldn't have insisted that Spot let her go back by herself.

It was dark out. Every shadow behind her was the Beast sneaking up for the kill, every whisper on the wind was a stifled scream. She longed for her cape, something, anything to provide safety and warmth, and hugged herself as she walked as quickly as she dared towards her father's apartment. And though the trip felt like hours, it was hardly even one, and when she arrived, the first thing she noticed was that the light in the front of the tailor's shop was still burning brightly.

That was the first thing she noticed. The second, though... the second was the forlorn figure sitting on the stoops that would lead up to the apartments. She couldn't see his face, he was looking down at the dirt, but she didn't need to. The white hat he wore was more than enough of a clue.

Red paused underneath the lamppost. "Tommy?"

Tommy Sanders whisked his butcher's hat away from his head at once and stood up, glaring out into the gloom and the darkness, searching for her. She could tell when Tommy spotted her because his frown quirked upwards in a relieved grin and, shielding his eyes against the glow of the gas lamp, he hurried towards her, crying out as he went, "Char! You're back!" He stopped right in front of her, wringing his hat in his hands. "You're okay... you are okay, aren't you?"

She weakly laughed off his concerns. Her stomach did a nervous flip-flop. "Of course, I'm okay."

"I've been so worried, it was all my fault—"

"It wasn't," she said firmly. With everything she came to say, the last thing she wanted was for Tommy to blame himself. There was no one to blame, although when it came to her poor father, Red was ready to accept full responsibility for what she had done.

That thought in mind, she asked Tommy, "Where's Papa?", though she figured she already knew the answer.

"Still in the shop, I suppose," Tommy said and Red nodded. The lit-up shop window made it obvious. "I thought it best not to worry him. I told your father that we met Mr. Smith on our walk and that you were spending the evening with him, helping him wrap his spools and thread. Your father had no reason to think otherwise."

Red didn't know what to say. She had run out on Tommy and spent the entire night away from home without another thought for him and her father and yet... and yet he had covered for her while she was gone. It was like a weight off of her shoulders. "That... that was very kind of you."

"It wasn't kind, it was selfish." Tommy bowed his head; she could see where his hat had mussed his hair in the back. "I couldn't tell your father why you ran away. That I scared you..." Tommy dared a glance up, as if checking to see if she was still there. The tiniest hint of a rueful smile was at home on his face. "Besides, I think I did enough worrying for both of us."

"Tommy, I—"

The strange smile was there and gone again, replaced by one that was more familiar to Red. "But you're back again," he said gleefully, leaning forward on the tips of his toes. "Does that mean you forgive me?"

Red didn't like the way he seemed to tower over her; that, and his mood swings were frightening. She flinched and wondered if he noticed that she wasn't wearing his ring. Then again, so pleased to have her home again, Tommy didn't even seem to notice the flinch.

"Of course, but," and she felt terrible that she had to add that but, but it would've been worse to lead him a moment longer, especially now that she knew her mind, "I... I have to talk to you about something."

Tommy leaned back on his heels, his smile entirely gone now. Worry filled every line of his face. "About what? Is something wrong?"

"Not necessarily wrong," she began before Tommy interrupted her.

"Then we can talk about it in the morning."

"No! I mean... I think we should do it now."

"Fine, Char, fine. We can talk right now if you want. Anything to make you happy." And, with his boyish charm and relieved expression, she knew he meant it, too. Tucking his hat in the waistband of his trouser, he offered his hand out to Red. "Here. Take a walk with me?"

For a moment, Red couldn't help but remember what had happened the first time Tommy asked her for a walk—right after his proposal, when Spot saw them together. And then, only yesterday...

Still, she owed him that much. She took his hand.

"Sure, Tommy."


	17. Catch the Wind

Tommy Sanders was nervous, that much was obvious.

It was in the way he stood, keeping an arms-length between them though he turned to his left on more than one occasion if only to reassure himself that Red was still there; it was in the way he talked endlessly, telling her how this was how his birthday walk with her should've really gone; it was in the way he apologized profusely until Red finally just begged him to stop. Tommy laughed and apologized again and, as part of an unspoken agreement between the two of them, he stuck to talking about safer things: his work at the butcher's shop, a book he wanted to buy for her, a card game one of his customers showed him if Red was interested... nervous as a spooked filly, he talked and talked and it was only by some grace of God that he danced around the topic of their engagement—and the subject of just where Red had spent her night last night.

Then again, thought Red as Tommy went on to mention something about the new display in the local bookshop, he wasn't the only one. Truth be told, she was more than a little nervous herself.

She couldn't quite explain it. Only one day had separated her from yesterday, a mere twenty-four hours, but it was a whole new world. Tommy's nerves only increased her own, and she longed to ask him for a few minute's quiet. The weight of Tommy's ring was heavy in her pocket and she knew that, before this walk was over, he would remember that she was the one who had something to say to him.

The trouble was this, though: now that she was with him, now that she had left Spot at his lodging house and she was walking alongside Tommy, the difference between the two boys was telling. She was nervous, but it wasn't the giddy nervous that made her think of steely cyan eyes and flapping butterflies. No, it was a disappointed sort of curdle that made her teeth knead her bottom lip and her finger absently twist the tail of her red ribbon around the tip. Because, as relieved as Tommy was to have her back, Red could only marvel that it had taken so many months for her to see where her heart truly belonged.

Maybe she was, as Mr. Woods once accused, something of a romantic. Maybe she liked the idea of meeting her childhood friend again after they'd both grown up and that it was exciting that they should fall in love, rather than Red marry Tommy thanks for their fathers' meddling.

Either way, that didn't make her feelings for Spot any less than what they were. And that didn't make her see Tommy Sanders as any more than what he was: an old family friend who knew her when she was in pig-tails and, in his way, barely allowed for the fact that she'd grown up at all.

The gas lamps were lit all around them, flames flickering and dancing, throwing shadows around that reminded Red of Spot's small shed; fireflies twinkled on and off weakly, summer all but spent and autumn beginning to rush in with the crisp wind and orange leaves. The night air was still when the wind minded itself, the clouds hanging heavily in the sky, the darkness almost stifling. It was an empty night, the streets vacant, no one around except for Red and Tommy, and that made her more nervous than anything.

Why had she agreed to take this walk? She could've very easily broken the news to Tommy on her father's porch, safety and sanctuary only a few steps away. Now she was lost in Brooklyn somewhere, a part of town that looked familiar but wasn't, and after she told Tommy the truth, she would have to take the awkward walk back home with him.

What had she been thinking? Or, perhaps, had she even been thinking at all—

"It's... it's so beautiful out," Tommy said, interrupting her thoughts, and there was something in the way he said that that made Red think he was grasping for something to allow her to respond. He paused and looked over at her again. "Don't you think?"

Red heard the earnestness in his voice and felt the heat from his eyes on her face as he implored her to say something, anything. She didn't. She couldn't. Regretting taking this walk so late, she took refuge in her silence.

Tommy laid a shaky hand on her shoulder and she tensed. It was impossible not to think of Spot, the way his hands were smaller and stained with newspaper ink and covered with ground-in dirt, the way they were steady as a bridge, sure and possessive when it came to her, never questioning. Spot's was the touch of a lover; Tommy was no more than a brother.

All at once, her whole body jerked, a quick tremble, a shiver, and she took that moment to shake her shoulder and loosen Tommy's hold.

"Char?"

Her stomach flip-flopped, the nerves striking out against her. She dropped her gaze to the dirt, saying nothing—she didn't know how to answer him, his comment or his question or even the hesitant way he called her name. Because the truth was that it wasn't quite so beautiful out at all, and it wasn't just her nervousness making her think so. It was chilly, the late September winds blowing something fierce, and she was grateful that her shiver and her shake could be owed to the weather.

"You're not too cold, are you?" His hand was back on her shoulder again, the two of them stopped. Tommy hesitated before offering: "Maybe we should go back."

"Maybe," she started to agree, before Tommy gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"But, wait... didn't you—I mean, you said you had something to tell me."

"Oh, yes. I... I did."

"What is it? Hey, you know you can tell me anything."

Somehow she didn't think that Tommy's offer would extend to her coming out with the truth about her fledgling relationship with Spot Conlon and that fact that she wanted to end their engagement. Still, though she knew she had to tell him, and while she was more than aware that every moment she put off telling him the truth was another moment she was playing with his emotions, but she couldn't find the words. Just... not yet.

Tommy seemed to understand. "We don't have to turn back yet. I like this, just being alone with you. It's nice. We don't get to do it nearly enough, and when we do... well, I love you, Char. Whatever you have to say, I want you to remember that."

At his sincerity, Red felt like Tommy had reached his hand inside her chest, grabbed her heart and gave it a good squeeze. It had been so easy to make the decision to go right to Tommy and break off the engagement—when she was with Spot. Now, though, now that she was actually standing side by side to Tommy, hearing him reassure her in such a way, reminding her that he loved her... Red's heart was breaking and she hadn't even brought herself to break his first.

Her eyes were on the dirt. She couldn't meet his gaze, she couldn't face the questions and the undeniable adoration that lurked in his expression, anxious for her response. So she kept her chin tucked into her chest, hugging herself after she shrugged off his seemingly ever-present hold on her shoulder. Anxious to look at anything but his expectations, she focused on the dry dirt and noticed a perfectly round pebble, black as the night surrounding them, dark enough to shine in the dull brown dirt at her feet.

Oblivious to Tommy's open curiosity, Red lowered herself down and hurriedly scooped up the pebble. It was the same size and shape as the marble she kept in her hope chest, she realized. A perfect shooter. Her hand closed over the small stone, her new prize. She would have to give it to Spot when they met again down at the docks tomorrow morning.

Tommy watched her in barely masked suspicion. "What's that?" he asked pointedly, without any trace of the sweetness that had been there only seconds ago. He suspected her attention was elsewhere but, for the life of him, he couldn't understand what was so interesting about the dirt.

"Oh, nothing." Red dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand, dropping the pebble in the front pocket of her skirt in a quick motion. In order to explain why she picked up a shooter, she would have to explain how she knew what a shooter was—and just who she wanted to give it to. And... well, not yet.

But soon. Maybe, she thought, on their way back. It wouldn't be fair to make him wait that much longer. "Where did you want to go now?" Red asked Tommy, changing the subject. She reminded him: "It was your idea for a walk."

The strange suspicion disappeared as quickly as it came. He laughed lightly. "As long as you're with me, I'll go to the moon and back if you ask it."

"Maybe not the moon," said Red, echoing his soft laughter as she dared a glance up and over her head, taking in the bright, white orb, the full moon that stood up above, the only visible witness to their walk and talk. Maybe she wasn't so alone, she wondered, and the thought was so silly that she laughed again.

"Okay, not the moon. How about the stars?"

"The stars would be too bright," she teased. "We'd be blinded."

"I'd protect you. I'd... I'd shield your eyes with my hands so that your eyes would be safe."

"You know I would never ask that of you."

"I would do it anyway. Even if the stars are blinding bright, I'd go as long as you were there. I'll follow you anywhere," Tommy promised and, in that instant, Red could see that he wasn't kidding. This wasn't a joke to him. He was serious.

Her laughs faltered but she stuck it out, intent on not showing Tommy how unnerved she was. "Well, let's hold off on the stars. For tonight, let me follow you," she suggested.

"Really?"

"This is your birthday walk," Red told him, remembering with a slight shudder how that one had gone and hoping that, before she had to tell him the truth, they could re-make that trip into something a little nicer. One thing was for sure, though: she still had no intention of allowing him to kiss her, and, thankfully, that idea seemed to be far from his mind. "Let's do it over, my gift to you."

"But you already gave me a gift," Tommy reminder her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bowtie and Red realized with a sinking feeling that he had been carrying around with him since last night. Maybe she was going too far... "See," he added, slinging it around his neck and hurriedly tying it with a lopsided knot, "I'll wear it forever."

That thought made her uncomfortable; all she could manage was a weak chuckle because, as certain as she was of anything, she knew he meant what he said. "Then, did you want to go back?"

"No! I mean... no, of course not. You're right, Char. Let's make this my birthday walk again. Nothing happened last night," he said more forcefully than Red was expecting, and she hoped that he didn't notice the slight flush that came to her cheeks as she spared a thought to everything that had happened after she ran out on Tommy last night, "and we can start over."

"That..." and she laughed, more out of nerves than anything else just then, because it was starting to dawn on her that maybe she'd taking this all a little too far, "that would be nice."

"Wonderful! Then I have the perfect spot for us to go."

And, suddenly, any and all of her laughter stopped.

Red nearly choked, and her last, half-laugh turned into a stifled gasp that quickly became a hurried cough that she blamed on a tickle. There was something in the way Tommy said that last word—maybe Red was just twitchy, or maybe her feelings for Spot were so strong following their afternoon together, but she gave a little start when Tommy mentioned it. And Tommy... was there a small touch of venom lacing such a simple word? Red shook her head, fervently hoping she had imagined it.

Tommy was certainly acting like nothing strange had happened at all. Though he itched to reach out to her, maybe steady her after her scare, he remembered in time how she kept pulling away and, heeding her unsaid wishes, kept his hands to himself. With another laugh, only slightly strangled this time, he continued, "No, really, I do. Remember that window I was telling you about?"

Red didn't, but she wouldn't hurt Tommy's feelings by admitting so. Sometimes she wondered if she listened to half of what Tommy said. "I, um, I think so..."

"The bookshop's window?" he prompted. "Their new display?"

"Oh, yes," she lied. "I remember now."

Tommy ran his hand through his sandy hair, a nervous gesture if there ever was one. "I know it's a couple of blocks over, a little far for this time of night, but if you're not cold..."

"I think I can manage, Tommy."

"So you'll come with me?" As eager as a puppy dog, his eyes lit up in anticipation. "I'd love to show you the display. Mr. Dickey has really outdone himself with the shopfront."

His excitement was almost contagious. Though Red knew very well that she was only agreeing because she needed a little more time to bring herself to break her news to Tommy, she kind of liked the idea of taking the walk with Tommy and seeing the window display he so obviously wanted to show her. She would take his excitement over his nerves any day.

Besides, she liked to see him happy. Something told her that, before long, he wouldn't be.

And that would be all her fault.

Biting her lip, slipping her finger in the front of her skirt to rub the polished side of Spot's new shooter in reassurance, she nodded. "The window first, Tommy. Then, if there's still time, we can talk."

If she had it her way, there wouldn't be any time and Tommy would forget until tomorrow. Despite being the one so desperate to come clean, Red was quickly becoming convinced that this wasn't the right time. Somewhere in the sunlight, when her father was there with her, or anyone else perhaps, and not just Tommy, reminding her over and over again how much he loved her.

Why, she thought as she followed Tommy's lead off into the night, was being in love so hard?

They never made it to the window. And Red, so lost in thought over that very same question, had no idea where they were going until it was too late.

Tommy knew the area well, thanks to all of the mornings and afternoons he had spent delivering his father's prime cuts of meat throughout all of Brooklyn. The bookshop he spoke of was a little out of the way but a small store he passed when his deliveries took him down those same streets. Red had never had reason to come this far and, as she said she would, she followed alongside Tommy dutifully as they went.

Until they reached a side street and an alley way over on the west side of the city, that is.

It was a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for the two to skip through to the next street; partway through, the trash and rubbish strewn to the side nipped at Red's skirt and she squeaked, moving ahead, Tommy following behind her as if he were a domino. When they were nearing the mouth, a loud crash, the sound of rat's claws skittering on the cobbles, it all erupted from the end of the alley behind them. In fright, Red turned around, and then Tommy, and neither saw anything in the gloomy darkness.

"Just a rat," soothed Tommy.

Red murmured her agreement. But that didn't mean that she didn't put on a little extra burst of speed until she left the confines of the tightly enclosed alley behind her for... for—

"Tommy? Where are we?"

There wasn't a bookshop in sight. There wasn't any thing she could recognize at all. Tall, empty buildings with black windows, not a single candle in sight. A gas lamp that stood on the far end of the street sputtered and burned, throwing weak light their way; the moon was shining brighter directly over their heads. She swore there was a factory or two on this street, sad, sorry buildings with smokestacks that hadn't puffed in years. It was a lonely street and not for the first time did Red wonder at the silent, vacant nooks that existed, forgotten, in the great bustling city of Brooklyn.

Tommy didn't seemed surprised or concerned at all.

"It's just a shortcut," he said simply. "But I was thinking... back in the alley, you see? It just keeps hitting me that I haven't properly atoned for my actions."

"Tommy, please, you don't—"

He held up his hand to cut her off. "I know you've asked me to stop and I probably should just listen to you but first, let me finish. I guess what I'm saying is... well, I just wanted to apologize again, for real and with everything I have, for the way I treated you last night. I'm willing to do anything for your forgiveness, Char. Anything."

That was it. That was the moment she couldn't let pass her by again; besides, she didn't think she could feel any worse. Not even the hint of desperation that eked its way into his tone could put her off. Red knew what she had to do and, taking a deep breath, she did. Slipping her pointer finger in her front pocket, she pulled out Tommy's ring and pressed it into his unresisting hand.

"You don't have to do that. You don't," Red repeated, more firmly this time when Tommy started to argue, "because I think its your forgiveness I should be begging."

"Char?" Tommy glanced down and, squinting against the darkness, using the moonlight as a guide, marveled at the gold ring he had nestled in his palm. "Charlotte, what's this?"

"It's your ring."

"My ring?" His eyes widened in surprise. "You mean your ring? Why aren't you wearing it? Here," and he tried to give it back, "put it on."

"No, Tommy," Red said softly, stepping back, shaking her head, refusing him, refusing his ring. "It's yours, not mine. I have to give it back to you. That's what I had to tell you. That's what I've come here to say."

"I don't... I don't understand."

"Don't you?"

And when he looked up, wearing that sad, lonesome expression like a puppy that had just been kicked but didn't know what it had done to deserve it, she knew that he didn't understand. He didn't know why she'd taken his ring off of her finger, or why she was pushing it back on him. Oh, maybe he knew deep down what was going on—she even suspected that they both knew that this was how it would end, breaking off the engagement right before the wedding—but, damn it, Tommy Sanders didn't understand.

Which meant that Red was obligated to try to explain. Tears prickled in her eyes, her breath caught in her throat, a sharp stab that warned of the sobs that threatened to follow, and she fought against it all because, if anything else, he deserved the truth. Not only that. Like she told Spot, Tommy deserved the truth—and he deserved to hear it from her.

"I'm sorry, Tommy," and she meant it. In every word, in every tear she blinked back as he looked down on her dolefully, her pain was real, her regret only second to her determination to do what was right. Loving Spot, letting Tommy go... that was what was right. "I just... I can't do it. It's not right, saying I'll marry you when—" and this is where it got hard and she just decided to blurt it out: "—when I'm in love with someone else."

"Someone else?" And then, more roughly: "Who is it?"

"That's not important."

"I want to know." This time there were no doubts. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Tommy grabbed her upper arm and gave a great pull, jerking her body so that, no matter where Red wanted to look, she had to look at him. "If it's not me... who's trying to take you away?"

"Tommy, don't do that," winced Red.

He tightened his hold on her arm and gave it a shake. "Charlotte, tell me!"

"It's not like that. No one took me away, I made my own choice... ow, Tommy, that hurts!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tommy demanded, shaking her again. "What do you—"

"Hey! I'll tell ya this just the once: if you like that hand ya got there, ya better let go of her."

They weren't alone any more.

Spot Conlon appeared in the mouth of the alleyway, his cane gripped tightly in one hand, the moon hanging overhead. For one terrible second, Red was thrust back into her nightmares, following a Hyde-like Spot, his cane dented and bloody, his face distorted and evil. But then the second passed and Red realized that this wasn't a nightmare, this was real, and Tommy—sweet, charming Tommy—was standing right beside her, yanking on her arm again while his fury made him as ugly as Edward Hyde.

"Conlon," he sneered. Tommy still refused to let go of his prize, but he stopped the jostles and the shakes at once. His eyes were shooting daggers at the boy who had just come from the shadows. Cinder Harrow would've been impressed at Spot's skill but Tommy was just plain sickened at sight of the Brooklyn newsie.

"Yeah, it's me." Spot's smirk held no sense of humor to it as he nodded over at Red. "Had me goin' for a bit there, Red. Never thought you'd tell him. And that alley back there? I was sure you'd heard me behind ya at last."

It dawned on her then that, when she thought she had gotten off too easy, she'd been a fool. Spot hadn't had any intention of letting her go alone—but, just then, she had never been so glad to have been followed in her life. She longed to run to him, to embrace him, to take his hand and run free like when they were children and he had, as always, saved her from harm.

Who ever thought Spot would have to save her from Tommy? Again?

But Red couldn't. Not with Tommy's hand holding so tightly to her arm that she could already feel the bruise forming. Not when he finally, finally understood.

"It's him?" Tommy looked from Red to Spot and back, his handsome features twisted in a grimace of shock and horror. "You gave me back my ring for him?"

At last he dropped his hand in anger and in disgust, leaving Red free to walk away. But she didn't. She couldn't. As guilt washed over her, guilt that mirrored the shame she felt the night Spot found her with Tommy and Spot was left surprised, Red turned to look at him, to try to explain.

"Tommy," she said, her hands clasped together in front of her chest, "you have to understand."

"Understand? After all I've done? For you? For us? You throw it all away for him? I won't have it, Char. I won't let you."

And then Tommy Sanders did something that Red never would have expected or, even in her wildest dreams, imagined him capable of: reaching into his own pocket, he pulled out a switchblade and with a soft snick that was more intimidating than the shadows that lurked just past Spot, the knife was opened, glittering wickedly in the moonlight.

Except... except the whole blade wasn't glittering, only the patches of clean steal were catching the moonlight. The rest of it... Red caught sight of the dull splotches of dark something that coated the knife and turned her head so that she wasn't staring at it any longer. Which probably wasn't the smartest move since she presented her whole throat to Tommy in her haste to look away but, luckily for her, she wasn't standing next to him long enough to do anything about it.

Tommy was quick but Spot was quicker. Maybe he was expecting something like that, maybe that was why he followed Red after letting her think he was going to stay behind and wait while she went off with Tommy alone, but before Tommy could do anything but posture and hold his stained blade, Spot crossed the length of space between him and Red.

He stuck his cane underneath his suspenders strap and grabbed Red by the wrist, pulling her away from Tommy, only stopping when there was half of a block separating the pair of them from him. Every inch of Spot exuded a protective sort of menace that forbid Tommy from taking one step closer.

Nobody moved.

Red was the first one to break the silence. "Tommy, put that thing away," she said in a quavering voice, fighting back the hysteria that, like on the morning she heard about Madge, threatened to overtake her. She couldn't believe her eyes, she didn't want to, and only her denial led her to add: "You'll never use it."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Spot murmured in her ear, but loud enough for Tommy to hear. He was going to take any advantage to get as close to Red as possible—especially if it meant keeping Sanders at bay. "Look at the blade. Now that's what I call red."

That wasn't quite true. The stains on the knife were browner than red, a dark copper that was barely visible now that Red had moved and the shine of the moon had moved with her. But, still, she couldn't un-see the stain any more than she could forget what that sickening patch looked like on Spot's undershirt.

Her stomach twisted itself into knots, her her heart seemed to simply stop beating as it caught in her chest and only the fact that she hadn't had anything to eat apart from some cheese and a roll in Spot's shed oh so many hours ago that kept her from vomiting all over her shoes. Instead, she gasped and it was even harder not to lose control.

Red couldn't keep the word back—

"Blood."

"That's right," Spot answered in a no-nonsense sort of voice. He, at least, wasn't surprised. It would take a lot more than that to catch Spot Conlon off guard.

He jerked his chin over at Tommy. Tommy, who was holding his knife out threateningly, glanced around wildly, as if he couldn't believe that Red had gotten away from him. He sneered again, glaring at Spot. Spot just met his glare coldly, placing one protective arm around Red's waist. Pulling her close, he said, "Look at him now, Red. He's dangerous, a man with absolutely nothing. He's game to do anything."

And that, Red realized with another painful twist of her stomach, was perfectly true.


	18. Bloody Valentine

Tommy hadn't put the knife away. Her eyes were drawn to it like a moth to a flame, the way the blade's handle fitted into the the crook of his palm, the way he handled it assuredly as if familiar with its weight... as if he'd used it before.

And then there was the blood...

Red didn't know where exactly the sudden and terrible suspicion came from. But it was there, her anger, her fear, her nerves, everything, it bubbled up and it mixed together until all there was left was a horrible certainty as she threw out her accusation:

"You're the Beast?"

She sounded hysterical and rightfully so. Drawing in on herself, hugging her middle with arms that wouldn't stop trembling, Red thought of the hulking figure that had haunted her, lurking in the back of her mind, skulking under her window... the murderous figure she had feared ever since Tommy first put the idea in her head back in July, when Red could no longer laugh it off and pretend the Beast didn't exist... and all along he had been living right down the hall?

Her breathing became frantic, short, shallow breaths in a race for her lungs to get enough air. The sobs were just about ready to emerge, breaking through, and they would have—great, hot, hysterical sobs—if it weren't for Spot. Taking his arm from around her waist, he turned and placed both of his palms on her arms, callused and dirty skin against the rumpled sleeves of her shirtwaist, meeting her panicked expression with a steely look of his own.

"He's no beast, Red. Not him. You hear me?" He waited until she nodded, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glossed over with tears she refused to shed. Not yet. She was still breathing roughly, taking in gulps of air, but she was breathing and just the feel of his hands reassuringly against her arms was enough to calm her; she pulled herself together, wiping roughly at the tears as if they were to blame for her reaction instead of the other way around.

Seeing the fight in her, knowing Red's spunk, Spot slowly took his hands back and then, turning around so that Tommy wouldn't get any funny ideas while Spot's back was turned, he moved in front of Red, covering her.

Spot met Tommy's anger and his hate and his heated insanity with a cold look that said you don't impress me. "I've seen beasts. Real beasts. Rapists, killers, thieves with nothing left to lose. Beasts living inside men's skin... monsters. You don't scare me, Sanders."

Tommy's brow furrowed, his eyebrows knitting together, and he looked past Spot with a fleeting expression that spoke of just how foolish he thought Spot was. But the fleeting expression was exactly that; in the next second, he turned to Red and gave her his most charming grin. If it wasn't for the knife and the aching pains in her arm and her stomach and her chest, she could've almost believed he was plain old Tommy Sanders again.

He certainly managed to sound like him. Even his soft laugh seemed genuine. "Don't be silly, Char. Me, the Beast? Your little, ha, friend here is right. I'm not the Beast. How could I be? If I was the Beast, I would've had to kill all those girls. And Madge. How could you think I would've hurt Madge?"

Madge...

"I... I didn't say anything about Madge," Red pointed out, her breath hitching again as an overwhelming suspicion crashed into her like a wave at the shore. Even her knees buckled under the weight. "Why would you?" And then, "I thought you said the Beast couldn't have attacked her."

"And maybe he didn't," Tommy agreed readily, anything to regain the control he'd had before Spot Conlon showed up. "But you know I could never do that. You have to."

"Hold on there, Sanders. She doesn't have to do nothin' 'cause, uh, I didn't say none of that. For all I know, you coulda gone after Madge," Spot added conversationally, taking one lazy step forward, and then another, never tearing his cyan eyes from the sharp, sharp blade. "Butcher's boy, you know how to use a knife. But that don't make you the Beast. It just means you're a rotten, good-for-nothing killer. Ha!" His laugh held a lot more spite than Tommy's. "Ya think Red could ever love a killer?"

Tommy ignored Spot. But his hand shook, the grip on his knife tightened, and Spot smirked in self-satisfaction.

He ignored Spot but Red was sure—or as sure as she could be since she didn't seem to really know Tommy Sanders at all—that he wouldn't ignore her.

"Tommy," she whispered, her voice small and achy, afraid of the answer but even more afraid of not asking the question, "why is there blood on your knife?"

He could have lied. He could have told her that it was from a side of beef or pork and Red would've believed him. She wantedto believe him.

And Tommy did lie—just not in the way she had hoped for. With a start, he glanced down at his hand and then, almost surprised to find a blade clutched securely between his long, slender fingers, he gave a jolt and folded his arm behind his back, hiding the steel. "What knife?"

"Don't be a dumbass." Spot held his hand daringly out. "C'mon, hand that knife over. You can give it here."

"Stay where you are!" Tommy ordered. He wasn't going to let Spot have the chance to come so close to him again. "Don't you move any closer!" he warned and though he didn't show the knife again, no one present was fooled into believing it was gone.

"You're desperate," Spot told him, lingering just in front of Red. He didn't move not because Tommy told him not to; he stayed in place because he was afraid to move away from Red in case that meant that Sanders could get back at her. He sniffed, trying to keep Tommy's wandering eye on him. "Desperate men make mistakes. I would know."

Tommy whirled on Spot and, while he followed his own orders and didn't move from his position, there was no hiding the hatred that blazed from his face. "You know nothing about me! What are you? A newsie! You know nothing!"

Spot's smirk grew even more devilish, his every being intent on keeping Tommy over there until he could knock him to the dirt.

"I know you love her. I know that me doing this—" Spot reached out behind him and ran his hand lightly down Red's arm, aware that she was shivering in something closer to confusion and fear, not lust, but damn well hoping Sanders didn't "—knowing the way it makes her feel... I know it makes you burn with jealousy. Because I have something you want. So, yeah, I may be just a newsie, I may not butcher beef and rake in the dough, but I know you want Red... you want Charlotte here. And I know you can't have her."

The sound that ripped out of Tommy then was more than a snarl. Red wasn't even sure it was human. His eyes bulging, his features far from handsom, Tommy threw back his head and let out a primal roar of anguish that reminded Red of the wolf howls in Pennsylvania and how she always feared their sharp teeth and even sharper claws.

Maybe that was what gave her strength. Maybe that was what made her brave. Either way, she didn't see Tommy standing in front of her any longer, he was more beast than man even if he wasn't the Beast, and beasts had to be put down.

The only question was how.

Spot was primed to fight. He braced himself, his shoulders rolled forward, his fists at the ready. In his more than ten years on the street, he couldn't count the amount of fights he'd been in. Some he'd lost, more than most he won, and nearly none of them had fair odds in his favor. This time Tommy Sanders had a knife but Spot... he had his cane and his sling, and neither of them were as formidable as his hands and a cold burning desire to bring Sanders to his knees, not only for what he could've, might've done, but for what was capable of doing—and what might have happened if Spot hadn't had the brains to keep an eye on his girl. He was half a head shorter than Tommy but he seemed larger than life, looming in front of her, ready to protect Red.

Except, for once, Red Woods was prepared to not only do what she had to to save herself, but she would also stand up for Spot, too. Her Spot. She wouldn't let Tommy do anything to hurt anyone else. Because, no matter what he said, there was blood on that knife and even in her blissful ignorance of the way the real world worked, even she couldn't believe that that was blood from any cut of butchered meat.

She cast her eyes around, looking for something, anything to help, when she had it. The answer was right in front of her.

Even in the darkness, she could see the familiar weathered wood of Spot's treasured slingshot sticking up out of his pocket, saw the shadowy bulge and knew that he was as ready as ever. It was time for her to follow his lead. As quick as a cat, she slipped her hand out and grabbed that slingshot, hoping she'd managed to do so without Spot noticing; since he didn't move his attention from Tommy, she figured she had. The pebble she'd picked up earlier was between her fingers in a heartbeat. Determined and no longer shaky, she extended her arm.

She had one shot. Using the shadows behind Spot to shield her, she put the shooter in the sling, remembered in stark vividness her unforgettable lesson with Spot on the docks, and aimed.

Tommy never saw the pebble coming. Just when he roared and, bringing his knife out and holding it threateningly in front of him again, he was just about to rush Spot, the pebble flew through the air, a wobbly arc, and hit him right in the side of his throat. The pain must have been something awful because he cried out, his knife flung from his hand, and he scrabbled backwards until there was nowhere to go and he landed—hard—on the cobbles beneath him.

"Charlotte?" he rasped out when he found his voice again, rubbing his throat, looking at her in bewildered surprise as if he could hardly believe that she had caused him any more pain; physical, this time, and no less real that his emotional trauma. "Char?" He lay defeated on the cobbles. Tommy Sanders didn't try to crawl back to his feet. No, he stayed in the dirt, at Spot's feet—at Red's feet—clutching the ring she gave him tightly in his fist.

He could've gotten up. Though the pebble was solid, it was small and Red wasn't anywhere near strong enough to do anything more than hit him with the little, round stone. On the whole, it was a nuisance, like a mosquito bite, but Tommy reacted as if he had been bowled over by a carriage, upended and struck down and immobilized. Because Red had shot him with the slingshot.

He could've gotten up. He refused to.

Spot had turned when Tommy fell—mainly in surprise because, as far as he knew, he hadn't been the one to knock Sanders down—positioning his body so that he could keep one eye on the butcher's son and the other on Red. Still, he was watching her with an unreadable expression that, in the daylight, might've been pride, but was a mystery at night. He took the slingshot back from Red without a word and was so preoccupied with making sure Sanders didn't move while he spared a second to put his slingshot back in place that he missed it when Red, moving quicker than he thought she could, skirted past him and hurried towards the fallen man.

"Tommy, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"Red? What the hell are ya doin'?"

She held a hand up behind her, silencing Spot who was simply too taken aback at her actions—Red striking Sanders down with one shot! Red rushing off to his side to check with him next!—not to fall quiet and watch her closely. Moving on light feet as she got closer, almost tiptoeing her way towards Tommy, Red approached him the same way she would a wounded animal. Softly. Quietly. No quick motions as skittish eyes followed her every step.

Pausing in front of Tommy, she dared a fleeting glance over her shoulder at Spot. "Do you trust me?"

It was the same question he had asked her that morning and they both knew it. The answer remained on the tip of his tongue—Spot didn't trust anyone. And yet, he nodded. "Yeah."

Red bent her knees slightly, crouching down, hovering right over where Tommy had struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. His legs were stuck straight out in front of him, he was leaning with most of his weight on one arm as he sat there, able to stand up but unwilling. With unblinking eyes that showed the betrayal and hurt he was feeling, he watched Red approach with a frown that made her heart ache.

She kept her tone soft and as even as she could make it. "I didn't want to have to do that. I didn't have a choice. I'm sorry."

"It's... it's okay."

"I'm going to sit down next to you. I want to talk. Can I do that?"

Tommy nodded, almost shyly.

Red fanned her skirt out around her and sank to the dirt, sitting side by side with him; too late she realized she was too close. She reached for Tommy and, like a mousetrap, both his hands ensnared hers. She tried hard not to flinch and succeeded, keeping her voice steady and calm as she said to him, "Now listen to me, Tommy. You're my friend, aren't you?"

"Fiancé!"

"Yes," she soothed, "you're my fiancé. And you love me, don't you?"

"More than life itself," he said desperately, clinging to her hand, afraid to let go as if, if he did, she would run straight back to Spot.

She took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in her fingers, and then pressed on. "And you wouldn't lie to me, would you?" When he didn't answer, she touched his cheek lightly with her free hand. "Tommy, you wouldn't lie to me, right?"

"I couldn't," he said, disregarding the fact that he just had. But Red didn't call him on it, neither did Spot, and both of them watched as a full grown man was brought down to being a lost, little boy. He shook his head, wincing as pain shot down his neck. A welt was already starting to form where her shooter hit him. "I can't tell you a lie."

"Alright, then tell me the truth: you're not the Beast, are you?"

"Never," he insisted. She believed him, too.

"What about Madge?" Red asked. "Did you hurt her?"

It was in his eyes. Those hazel eyes of his, once kind, now crazed, Red could see the answer there as easily as if he told her himself. And then, because Tommy could see that his only hope lied in telling her the truth, he found the words spilling from his lips, not a yell, but a childish explanation—

"I had to. She was going to tell you things."

The pit of Red's stomach sunk down to the stones. She gulped. It was a struggle to ask the questions she wanted to ask, but this was her only chance—she had Tommy right where she wanted him—so she kept on going. "What things?"

"She was a liar!" he snarled suddenly.

Spot started forward; he'd seen enough rabid dogs to tell when they were getting ready to turn. Red caught sight of his motion out of the corner of her eye and shook her head once, asking him to stop. He caught the tail-end motion of her ribbon as it swayed and, doing what she asked, froze in his place. But he pulled out his cane again, just in case.

"What," wheedled Red next, "did Madge lie about?"

Tommy responded better to her soft question. When he spoke, when he answered her, he sounded like an earnest little boy. He sounded like the Tommy Sanders she knew from when she was a little girl herself—which only made what he said even harder to take.

"She said she loved me. She said she would be happy for me whoever I chose. But I love you, Char, ever since you were eight years old and my father brought you over to play, your hair like honey and your laugh a melody in my head that never left. I've always wanted to marry you and she didn't like that. She said... she said she would tell you that I took her innocence. But she was never innocent. She deserved everything she got!"

The heat in his voice, the absolute venom that slipped in at the end, it made Red second-guess her attempt to talk to him. With Tommy in this state, she wasn't sure how much she could trust him—or if she could even trust him at all. She trusted Spot, and now she was certain that Spot trusted her, but she had trusted Tommy too, once, and now he was confessing to hurting Madge, killing Madge.

Red thought of the lipstick-stained handkerchief, of fresh sticky buns hot in the oven, of the empty feeling that took her over when Madge Harris was murdered. She thought of how kind Tommy had been, how supportive he was, and couldn't align her memories with the truth she was so desperate for him to share.

She bit down gently on the bottom of her lip. There was only one way to do this.

"I'm sure she did," lied Red, "but I know you know it's not right to hurt a girl simply for being sweet on you, Tommy."

"I... I know."

He actually managed to look abashed, almost ashamed at his actions—just, not quite. It was halfhearted, as if he knew he should feel bad but didn't, so he was pretending for Red's sake. It was no better than his crazed expression. At least the anger had fled from his voice.

"Then tell me why. Can you do that? Why did you hurt Madge?"

"I had to," Tommy said simply. "She wouldn't leave."

"Leave?"

He nodded. "She had to go, but she wouldn't leave. We would never be happy together as long as Madge was around. She wouldn't let me be, she told me so. I wanted her to go back to Manhattan, I never wanted to hurt her, but she just wouldn't go. She wouldn't leave. She told everyone... she told you... that she had to stay and take care of her grandmother but that was another lie."

Red interrupted with as much care as she could: "Mrs. Pierce wasn't sick?"

"She was, but there used to be a nurse that came around to visit her. Mrs. Edwards. When Madge left, Mrs. Edwards could come back around again. I had it all thought out."

"But Madge never left."

"No," agreed Tommy, "and that's why my plans had to change. I'm telling you, Charlotte: Madge had to go."

"And that's why..." Red left her sentence hanging there. She couldn't say it out loud.

"She didn't suffer. I know you think she was your friend, so I made sure she didn't suffer... she ought to have, but I'm not that hardhearted. I gave her a kiss... a chaste one, on the cheek, less than she wanted but more than she deserved. And then I did it. I cut her throat," he said as a matter-of-fact. Red gasped, tears prickling her eyes, but he didn't stop. "She died instantly. I added the other cuts later so that the Beast would take the blame. Don't you see, though? I did it for you, Char."

Spot had been listening to the eerie, chilly way Tommy Sanders spoke of Madge Harris' murder with a steely glint in his cyan eyes and frown so severe, he might've picked it up from the new matron of the lodging house. The Brooklyn newsie had learned long ago to listen because if you had a brain, and more than half of one, you listened to what was going on first, then acted second, no matter how much he wanted to use his cane or, hell, his slingshot himself.

Even he couldn't let Sanders' last comment pass him by. "You didn't do it for Red," he accused. "Ya did it for you."

"I did it for us." He gave Red's hand another, tighter squeeze. "You're mine."

Spot snorted. "Oh yeah? Keep dreamin'."

Red hardly heard either of them; in fact, she'd almost forgotten Spot was there. Reeling from Tommy's confession—not just what he did but that he thought he was doing it for her—it was as if it were just her and Tommy and Tommy's horrible deeds alone in this dismal place and she wondered, did Tommy bring Madge to a place like this before he took out his knife? How close was she to ending up like Madge? Would she have been just another victim pawned off on the Beast?

Would Tommy have killed her, too?

Her head was spinning. If it wasn't for his grip on her hand, she thought she might've fallen backwards or crumpled inwards, landing in the dirt alongside him. This had to be a dream, she told herself, blood rushing to her face, pounding in her ear, throwing her balance off even more. What reason did Tommy have to kill Madge? For her puppy love? Red always suspected that Madge had feelings for Tommy, even if Madge never said. Why would that have gotten her killed?

She couldn't understand it. It was a nightmare, all of it, it couldn't be true.

But it was. And it only got worse.

She couldn't speak. The words failed her, there was no way she could begin to express what she felt, and she sat there, both trapped and frozen, unable to do anything to help herself. Red didn't want to hear anymore and yet... she couldn't stop.

And Tommy, once started, he didn't need her prompting to continue.

"Don't mourn Madge. She isn't worth it. I did you the biggest favor." He actually sounded like he believed what he was saying. "She hated you, Char. Did you know that? She couldn't wait for you to leave so that she could steal a moment alone with me. She said mean things, terrible things... she wanted me to love her and not you. But I couldn't. You can't choose who you love any more than I could pick her over you!"

Like a slap to her face, Red was reminded of that long ago evening when Mr. Woods told her the same thing: you can't choose who you love. Red was proof of that. She hadn't chose to return to Brooklyn to fall in love with Spot but it had happened. The only choice left for her was whether or not she was going to follow her heart and she'd made that choice that morning.

Tommy had a choice, too. And, thought Red, sick to her stomach, he chose wrong.

"She wanted to see you gone," Tommy added, and the simple way he spoke, like a young child confessing his sins in church, almost made Red forget the severity of the crimes. And still he continued, "I couldn't let her do that. She had friends, bad friends... she would've got to you first and if not her... you've always been surrounded by enemies. More than you know."

The really terrible thing was that he was right.

Red had been hiding from the Beast ever since she discovered he was more than a myth; how could she forget that night on her own and the black shadow at her back? Then there was Spot. How many weeks had she been afraid? Afraid to find him waiting underneath her window, afraid to discover the meaning behind the blood on his shirt? Afraid he was the boy in red suspenders? Tommy... she never thought she'd have to fear him but she had; there was no way for her to forget the way he grabbed her, sending her running right off and into Spot's arms. And then, if she could believe him, even Madge—

—but that's just it, she decided.

She couldn't believe it.

She wouldn't believe it.

Shaking her head in denial, trying to pull away from Tommy and succeeding in getting him to loosen his hold from both hands to one, Red didn't say anything. She just stared down at the dirt, trying to make some sense of what happened.

Spot took that as his cue to jump in at last.

Standing over him, Spot used the tip of his cane to prod Tommy in the chest. "If Red was ever in danger, it was from you. I should've known it then, with all the reports my boys brought in. You didn't like 'em standin' under her window, didja, Sanders? Always tryin' to get 'em to leave... I thought you was bein' jealous, I thought you was tryin' to look out for her, but you wasn't. All you was doin' was keepin' her to yourself. Ya killed Madge when she was draggin' ya down. How long before you turned your knife on Red here?"

"I was protecting her! Saving her from you! Everything that happened was your fault—"

Tommy tried to rise up off the ground as he retorted, a sudden flash of fury making him move. Spot's cane stayed right where it was, though, and the force of Spot's push kept Tommy from wiggling too much.

"Don't you go blamin' your crazy on me, pal."

"But it was. It was your fault, all of it," insisted Tommy, eyeing the cane angrily but unable to move it without hurting himself first. He shook his head and then, defeated once more, turned his attention back to the oblivious Red. "Please, Char, don't blame me. If you want to blame someone," and he pointed up, "blame that street rat right here."

"My fault?" Spot snorted again, this time in disbelief. "Ya wanna tell me how?"

Tommy turned to Red and tugged her hand, jerking her out of her reverie. He was still pleading, desperate to make her understand. "I had to save you from him most of all. That's why I had to make you think he was responsible. That he was the Beast."

Spot, seeing that Red was now looking dazedly at his cane as if wondering what it was doing pushed against Tommy's ribcage, took it back, holding it loosely in his right hand. He took a step away, but never far enough that either of them was out of his reach.

Red gulped, trying to regain her composure. It was hard, probably the hardest thing she had ever done, but she managed to ask, "Why's that?"

"You were made for me, promised for me. Always meant to be mine. I bought your ring," Tommy lifted it up to show it to Red, who wished she could take it from him and throw it until it was forever lost in the darkness, "and I waited until I could tell you so. Until I could make you mine for ever and for real. Madge was gone, she couldn't hurt you, but him... I was waiting for your father to bring you back to me and he did. I wouldn't—I won't let Conlon take you away again!"

Spot made a strangled noise at that, a growl in the back of his throat, as his grip on his cane tightened. Red, though, was too stunned to notice—or to stop him from looming closer again.

"So you knew... you knew when I moved back here, there was already a wedding being planned?"

Tommy nodded. "Didn't you?"

Red started to say no and that was the truth, but, then again, didn't she have her suspicions? When her father showed her that damn wedding dress that fateful day, didn't she wonder if this was all something that had been arranged long before she knew anything about it? She decided not to answer. "What does that have to do with Madge?"

"It has everything to do with Madge. She was the one who told me about Conlon. She was the one who warned me that you were falling for a good-for-nothing newsie."

Tommy's words hung in the air. At first she couldn't believe them, couldn't make herself understand, but then—

"How?"

That one word exploded out of her. For the moment she forgot that she was trying to keep him calm, trying to keep herself calm, that she was trying to get the answers from him. It was too much, discovering that the man she had promised to marry was a murderer. It was too much, being told that her friend had hated her all along. She found herself praying they were lies, all of it, but knew in her heart that it had to be the truth. She was aware she was falling victim to her emotions, that there would be time to sort out what everything he had said really meant and that this wasn't it, but she couldn't help herself.

She found the strength to yank her hand free, pulling as hard away from Tommy as she could, crying out as she did: "Madge didn't know anything about Spot until the day she died!"

The tears had returned. Angry and hot and all but blinding her, Red let them come, cradling her hand to her chest, oblivious to Spot's tension. He didn't lunge forward again, biding his time, ready to prove the trust that he didn't give away lightly, but Spot waited on the balls of his feet, just itching for the chance to make Tommy Sanders pay for making Red cry.

Again.

She didn't get too far away from him. Before she could scuttle away in the dirt, Tommy reached out and grabbed her other hand. He wasn't ready to let her go.

"Yes. The day of our engagement. That's why I had to do it, don't you see?" he pleaded. "Madge came down to the butcher's shop to see me as soon as you left her apartment. She told me... I think she knew I was going to propose to you. She wanted to stop me. Why should I marry you, she said, if you already had your heart set on someone else?"

She wanted to take her hand back again, the feel of his clammy skin against hers made Red sick, but she didn't. Taking a deep breath, she worked to get herself under control; she doubted she could afford to lose her temper again. Besides, Spot was standing right behind her, protecting her as always, urging her on. She could do this. Sniffling and sniffing, Red wiped her eyes again with the hand Tommy wasn't clinging to and tried to ignore the pressure in her head and they way everything seemed to throb.

"But you still proposed." Just then, she sounded as hollow as she felt.

"Of course I did. We're gonna be married."

"Fat chance," mocked Spot.

Red silenced him with a look. Watery eyes rimmed with red, the tracks of her tears glistening in the moonlight, all of it was enough to get Spot Conlon to hold his tongue. She turned back to Tommy. "I bet Madge didn't like that, huh, Tommy?"

"She didn't," Tommy agreed, a lot calmer now that he was stroking Red's hand again.

"Tell me what happened."

If Tommy was aware that every word he said was like another wound tearing into Red, he didn't show it. Eager to please, he answered her question readily.

"She slipped a note under my door that night, telling me we had to talk. I knew I wouldn't like what she had to say so I started thinking. I'd met this Conlon rat that night and I remembered those beat suspenders he pranced around in. I took a pair that belonged to my father. I put on a cap to hide my face in case anyone saw me—and they did. Mrs. Pierce saw the red suspenders and made it all so easy for me."

What was so awful, Red would think later, was how he had been right: it had been easy for him. All Mrs. Pierce had needed to see was the red suspenders and, suddenly, Red was worrying over her boy in red suspenders while Tommy sat beside her, getting ready to marry her as he carried the secret about Madge's murder.

It seemed to liberate him, telling it all to Red, and never once did he think that that meant Red would never want to speak to him again.

No. Just the opposite, in fact. Tommy seemed to think that it would make her want to marry him even more.

"What I don't get," offered Spot when he noticed that Red couldn't find the next thing to say, "is how I ended up covered in blood." That wasn't the first thing on his mind—no, the first thing revolved around soaking Tommy Sanders within an inch of his life and then throwing what was left of that inch the bulls' way—but it was something to distract Red and, just maybe, help him understand something that had been nagging him at the back of his mind for weeks.

Tommy didn't even blink. It was like Spot hadn't said a single word at all.

Red swallowed back the terrible taste in her mouth. She'd long wondered the same thing herself, so she repeated for Spot, "Can you tell me how he got covered in blood?"

That did the trick.

"I had help. Cinder—"

"Cinder," scoffed Spot. "I should've known."

"Spot, hush!" whispered Red, and then, "Go on, Tommy."

"Cinder... she saw me with Madge, then she saw me coming back alone. She's a smart girl, it didn't take her long to figure out what happened, especially since I ended up covered in more than a little blood myself. She was all set to scream for the police when she started to get curious about what happened. I couldn't lie, she'd caught me red-handed, so I told her. And that's when she made her deal: she'd help me make it look like Conlon was guilty enough so that Charlotte wanted nothing to do with him. I'd have Char, Cinder would get Spot back and the Beast would take credit for another whore's death."

Red didn't know what struck her deeper: hearing how callously Tommy spoke of her friend's death and framing Spot for it all, knowing that she was the reason behind everything, or that Madge Harris had never really been her friend at all. She could feel her face turning green, she swallowed back the rising bile, and because she knew she had to do it, she kept on sitting there, listening to everything Tommy had to offer her.

"Cinder went back to the body and got the blood. She knew where to find Spot, she knew what seedy pub he trawled in, and she planted the blood on him. He was supposed to wonder how the blood got on him, and fear his own drunken Irish temper. Charlotte wasn't supposed to know about the blood but sometimes, Char, I swear you did. How could you have known?"

Spot relied on the smoldering fury of that self-same Irish temper to goad Tommy: "Because she was sleeping with me that night."

"Spot!"

Tommy whimpered; it was a far cry from his feral howl from earlier. She could hardly imagine him wielding a knife in the butcher's shop, let alone using it on Madge. And though she knew she shouldn't, though he was a murderer, he was still Tommy Sanders and it broke her heart to see him like this. So when he pressed something hard against her hand and then folded her fingers over to keep it there, she couldn't bring herself to refuse the ring again.

Later, she decided, and then, using the softest voice she possessed to hide all of her confusion, her guilt, and her hurt, said, "I thought Madge and Cinder were friends."

"They were," Tommy admitted to the night sky. He couldn't even look at her anymore. The thought of his Charlotte together with that street rat running through his mind like a flicker, he leaned his head back and stared blankly at the moon and the stars and knew he would follow her still, but she would never want him to. That didn't stop him for answering her, though. "At least, they were until Cinder went to Madge for help to get to you out of Spot's life and Madge wouldn't let her. I told you there were enemies all around you, Char. Madge turned Cinder away, not because she wanted to save you, but because she wanted to take care of you herself. That made Cinder angry—"

"You don't want to see Cinder angry," muttered Spot, and considering that was coming from someone with an infamous temper of his own, that was something. His thoughts darted back to the way he left Cinder at the docks yesterday—angry was an understatement—and he wondered if he should take his own advice. Maybe after he soaked Sanders, he'd have to take care of Cinder, one way or another. Scotch, he was sure, would help him just like that double-crossing rat Cinder helped Sanders.

Just then Spot was beginning to think that the bulls were too good for the likes of them.

Tommy went on as if he hadn't heard Spot. "—Cinder was angry. She would've done anything for Conlon, even selling out a friend. Just like I would do anything for you."

"Even murder?" whispered Red.

"Yes. Even that."

It was quiet then. Red didn't know what else to say, Spot didn't trust himself to say anything else and Tommy just laid there, holding onto Charlotte. The insane look had fled from his eyes and he seemed at peace, which was more than could be said for the turmoil whirring inside of Red, or the justification that was taking over Spot; he may not have found the Beast, but getting any beast off of the streets was worth the satisfaction. Especially since that beast was not only a threat to Red, but to Red and Spot. He could've worked to tone down his smirk but, as Red finally untangled her hand from Tommy's and slowly got to her feet, he didn't even bother trying.

This time, Tommy let her go. His head still tilted back, only watching the stars and the moon and the dark, black clouds up above him, he didn't try to stop her. But his words caused her to pause nevertheless.

"You know I never would have hurt you, don't you? Not like Madge. I love you too much, even if... even if you don't love me."

Red nodded. She didn't have to say it. Tommy's knife lay abandoned more than an arm's reach away from him; she didn't fear it anymore. Besides, she was more afraid for Tommy than afraid of him. Closing the small gap between them, she stood by Spot's side. Once she was, the world made a little more sense. Not much, and it would be a long time until it did again, but some.

And then Tommy added, "But you do still love me, Char, right? Charlotte?"

"I..." Red hesitated, glancing at Spot, who was watching her with such an intensity in his cyan eyes, unblinking, waiting to hear what she had to say. So she told the truth. "Yes. Of course I do."

It wasn't a lie. Like how she thought she still cared for Spot when she believed he was responsible for Madge's death, she couldn't deny Tommy now.

Because she feared she still loved him, too. Just not the same as she had before. And never the same as she loved Spot Conlon now.

Tommy exhaled, a long, sad, broken sound that seemed to last an eternity. When at last he said, "Then it was worth it," that was when, with Spot's arm holding her tight, Red finally allowed herself to give in wholeheartedly to her grief. She cried, so softly and so quietly that Spot could only tell she was by her slight tremors, and as Tommy lingered on the ground, she didn't even try to wipe away another tear.


	19. Epilogue

It was early October in Brooklyn, the first week in, and for once the weather was behaving. The sun was shining, it was still warm enough for Red to go out in the afternoon without her cape or a shawl, and the smattering of golden leaves left fluttering overhead, the few that hadn't fallen yet, they made a beautiful backdrop to their outing.

The picnic had been her idea. With everything that happened with Tommy Sanders on the evening following his birthday, Red hadn't seen nearly as much of Spot as she would've liked. Going down to the docks was out of the question; she was lucky if her father let her out of his sight long enough for Red to dare a peek out of her window. Sometimes she got lucky and Spot was waiting with a smirk under her lamp post and she could throw notes down to him.

At other times, though... other times she sat alone in her room, wondering where Spot was, worrying about Tommy...

Red gave her head a clearing shake as she spread out Spot's red blanket; she had insisted he bring it with him from his shed so that they could set up their little picnic meal on the blanket rather than the grass. It had taken her three days of continuous begging and pleading to get Mr. Woods to agree to this little affair and only because it was Spot who had been the one to save his daughter from danger did he eventually say yes. That, and the fact that, since Tommy was taken away, there hadn't been hide nor hair of the Beast.

She liked to think that it was purely coincidence, but she couldn't help but wonder—

"Hey there. Watcha thinkin' 'bout?"

Spot's voice cut into her thoughts like the steel blade Red could never forget. He was hanging back, watching as Red tugged absently on one corner of the blanket though, she noticed as she focused her attention on it, the blanket was as even as she could hope to make it.

Red let out a short, unconvincing laugh. "Oh, nothing," she told him, reaching for the wicker basket she used whenever helping her father on his errands. Instead of thread, though, the basket held a variety of food: two apples, some cheese, a loaf of bread, a small jug of cider and a plateful of cookies Red had made for just the occasion. She placed it right in the center, refusing to meet Spot's knowing gaze. Instead, she busied herself with pulling the jug out and two mugs she smuggled from her father's kitchen, pouring out the cider for them both.

Nothing, she said, but Spot's knowing gaze was, well, knowing. He knew what she was thinking about—the same thing he hadn't been able to get off his mind, either—and he knew why Red kept turning away from him when it came to the topic of Tommy Sanders. She didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to push it, so Spot kept his mouth shut. For now, at least. Because, he asked himself, why ruin such a promising afternoon?

They were in Prospect Park again, only their second time together in the meadow. Still, Red thought of it as a place for her and Spot—and the perfect spot for their picnic. She'd excitedly told Spot of her plan to spend the day together yesterday, sticking her head out of her window and calling down to the street below. Red only offered two details: that they were to meet at the docks before heading off to the park and that, if he didn't mind, she would appreciate it if he brought his red blanket. She supplied the food—the food, and the company that Spot had been craving since that one night they spent together in his hideaway.

Red took her time measuring equal amounts of spiced apple cider into her pilfered mugs; Spot couldn't hide his smirk as he watched her. When she was done, she patted the blanket carefully so as not to disturb the two mugs. "Take a seat," she said invitingly.

Spot took a second to marvel that the invitation had been given at all. If someone would've told Spot Conlon a year ago—hell, even a month ago—that he would be sitting in Prospect Park alongside Red Woods, the autumn breeze sending the ends of her red ribbon flying around frantically, in love and loved in return... well, he would've had a few choice words for them all, beginning with telling them to take a dive into the East River to save him the trouble.

But look at him now. He sat down next to Red, hiking up his trousers and awkwardly climbing down so that he was sitting on top of the blanket. In an instant, though, Spot was lounging back, leaning on his elbows, looking for all the world to see as if he owned this patch of grass. His knowing gaze melted away into a lazy grin and the slant-eyed, content expression of a fat house cat as he exhaled loudly. Now this, Spot told himself, was worth giving up a round of selling a bum headline.

Red caught sight of his expression and just managed to stifle her chortle in time to tap Spot gingerly on his shoulder. "Here," she said, holding his mug out to him, "have a drink."

Spot accepted the mug of cider Red passed his way. He eyed it skeptically and gave it a tentative sniff. It looked like apple juice but it certainly didn't smell like it. "You sure this is made from apples?"

"Apples and spices. Why?"

"'Cause it smells like somethin' I could get at the pub, two bits a bottle." His lip curled, his cyan eyes bright and winning. "You ain't tryin' to get me drunk, are ya? 'Cause that ain't necessary."

Red smiled then, a real smile, and though it made her cheeks hurt, she couldn't help but notice that this was one of the first times she had cause to be happy in a long while. Her laugh, when she let it out, was genuine and sweet. Reaching out, pressing his mug gently to his lips—Spot didn't resist her touch—Red urged him, "Go on. Try it."

Spot took a small sip, barely a mouthful, and was surprised at the taste. It was thicker than apple juice, with a little bit of a bite to it. The spices Red mentioned were there. "That was good, Red." He went back to his mug and drained it in three gulps. When he was done, he licked his lips. "Damn tasty."

"I'm glad you like it."

He jerked his chin over at her. "What about you?"

"It's my favorite, especially this time of year. It reminds me of home," she said, before adding, almost as an afterthought, "wherever that may be."

"Home is here in Brooklyn. With me. Remember that."

"Yes, Spot." And, re-filling Spot's mug with the cider before topping off her own, Red looked down so that Spot wouldn't see the pleasured flush that colored her cheeks.

He gratefully lifted his mug back to his lips and drank. When he was done, Spot told her: "And I'll remember that cider's your favorite." He thought about it for a second. "I guess it can be mine, too."

"Like how red is your favorite color?" Red asked innocently. A little too innocently, if you asked Spot, who would rather hunt down Tommy Sanders and shake him by the hand than admit that he had once preferred blue until a little blonde girl, a simple tailor's daughter with a red ribbon in her hair, made him change his mind.

The silence that followed was content and cozy. There were children playing in the field over, a loud, rambunctious game involving a stick, a ball and lots of running, but it was more of a background noise than anything else. It didn't disturb them as Red continued to sip her cider and Spot, keenly aware that Red wasn't ready to yet, picked up the paring knife she brought in her basket and began peeling his apple.

With the knife in his hand and the way Red's warm brown eyes kept flitting nervously over to it each time a sliver of the red peel landed in a curl on the grass, it was no surprise that Spot's thoughts had fallen back on Sanders—and, not for the first time these last few weeks, his motives. He couldn't help it. For all the questions Red asked and the answers Sanders gave, Spot kept coming up with more and more in that brain of his. He couldn't ask Sanders, he didn't want to ask Red, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.

Munching thoughtfully on a slice of apple, he said suddenly, "I don't get it."

"Hmm?" Red put her mug down and, folding her hands in her lap, she looked over at Spot. Lost in a world of her own thoughts, she was caught unaware by his interruption. "What's that?"

"I said, I don't get it. Why Sanders offed Madge like that, I mean."

No one could ever accuse Spot Conlon of beating around the bush.

It was a good thing she had already set her mug on the blanket. At his words, Red jerked and, if she'd still been holding the mug, her blouse would've been covered in sticky cider. To say that she hadn't been expecting that—especially with the way everyone... her father, Mr. Sanders, even Spot... had been careful to dance around the subject with her lately—would be an understatement.

"Spot, I—"

He slipped the paring knife back into the wicker basket before holding his free hand out in a calming gesture. "No, just... hear me out, Red. Can ya do that?"

She gulped and nodded. For Spot. "I think so."

He didn't want to push her. But he knew from his own experiences, watching his mother die in front of him as a boy, not bothering to stick around long enough to watch his father drink himself into his grave... Spot knew that it wasn't healthy, keeping it all inside. And what use was there in waiting?

"I've been goin' over it, over and over again, and I just can't seem to make any sense of it. I mean, he was a loon, there ain't no denyin' that, so I'm already tellin' myself most of what he says ain't worth goin' down a flush toilet. Still, there had to be some kind o' reason, right?"

"You were there. You heard what he said."

"Yeah, I did. That don't mean I get it. So what if Madge was chasin' after him? What was wrong with him just turnin' her down, eh?"

Red sighed, placing the lid back on the basket. All of a sudden, she no longer had any appetite. "I don't think it was that simple, Spot."

"You didn't believe him when he said he did it for you, didja?"

Red flinched like he'd slapped her. Spot knew at once he'd gone too far—it was too soon, the guilt still so very raw, and Red's face lost that red color as she paled. Feeling like a scoundrel, he started to apologize, to tell her that he'll drop it but, before he had, Red took a deep breath and said, "Do you really want me to tell you what I think?"

"I do," he said honestly. "But, if ya don't want to talk 'bout it, I... I get it. I never shoulda brought it up."

"No, no... it's alright. Really," and she said it in such a way that it sounded like she was trying to convince herself even more than Spot. Then again, this was the longest they'd been alone together since the night Tommy revealed his true colors. While Red thought they could have a nice, peaceful picnic together, she had been blissfully unaware to expect Spot wouldn't even try to bring up what had happened. "I've been thinking about it myself. I never got to speak to Tommy again after that, his father wouldn't let me, but I have my ideas."

Spot had forgotten about his half-eaten apple. He held onto it, the pulp already browning, no intention of returning to it. As always, Red had every ounce of his attention. "Yeah?"

"As simple as I can make it," she said, and she felt her heartbeat speed up a little as she remembered that night, the knife with the patches, the crazed look in Tommy's hazel eyes, "I think it has to do with you. Not that it's your fault," she said quickly before he could argue, though she didn't say anything about it not being her fault, "but Tommy... he was really intent on marrying me." She shrugged her shoulders apologetically, not really sure what she was sorry for. "He wasn't going to get to do that with Madge telling him that I was in love with you, so... I think he thought that if he silenced Madge, then that made what she said go away. Then I wouldn't be in love with you... then I would be with him."

Spot accepted everything she said with a slow, curious nod. When she was done, he said, "Let me get this straight—you're sayin' he killed Madge 'cause you love me?"

"As far as I can tell," Red said weakly. "But that's just my idea."

"How was that supposed to work? Why didn't he just come after me?"

"I have an idea about that, too," admitted Red.

Spot looked like he couldn't wait to hear it. "What's that?"

"Because you're Spot Conlon."

And though she said it with a small, sad smile, there was truth in her statement—and they both knew it. Madge was a seventeen-year-old girl with as much fight in her as a kitten; Spot could give the Beast a run for his money. That was why Tommy never went after Spot, that was why his plan solely centered on disgracing Spot in Red's eyes, because, even with a knife in his hand, what could he do to Spot Conlon?

It was Spot, after all, who managed to bring Tommy in. Even though Red had used Spot's slingshot to knock Tommy down, Spot's way of expecting everyone to do what he said enabled him to convince Sanders to get back on his feet. With a hint of satisfaction, he used his faded red suspenders to tie Tommy's hands behind his back and, together, he and Red marched up to the first copper they happened upon.

That was Red's idea. If Spot had it his way, he would've soaked Tommy Sanders for what he'd done—murder, first and foremost, but dirtying his name and trying to hurt Red—and then left him in that dank, damp alleyway. But she wouldn't have it. Usually, the fact that Red was a soft touch intrigued Spot, she wasn't anything like Cinder Harrows, except in this case, Spot felt she was wrong. Not that he tried to tell her so. He didn't. Which was why Sanders still had limbs that weren't broken and a nose that wasn't smashed in.

Of course, if he ever got the chance...

"He's safe now," Red said softly, decisively, making it clear that she was done with this conversation. She patted his hand, then squeezed his fingers with her own. "Thanks to you, I'm safe."

"I still think he should've been sent downriver," Spot said gruffly, though he didn't seem to mind that Red was comforting him. "Killin' poor Madge like that, no matter what his reasons. I could've protected ya without resortin' to killin' no one." Except when it came to the Beast, he added to himself. That was one monster who deserved to be put down for good.

Red, who knew Spot well enough by now to figure what he was thinking even when he didn't tell her so himself, just pursed her lips and said nothing. Which didn't mean that she disagreed...

Mr. Sanders was a very respected merchant in Brooklyn. The sons of respected merchants, be they butchers, bakers or candlestick makers, they didn't get shipped off to Sing Sing. Bellevue Hospital was the place for Tommy to go to pay for silencing Madge Harris. Spot thought he got off way too easy; Red, remembering how it felt to be in her own cage, just shuddered when she thought of Tommy behind bars of any kind

At least Madge was free now. And sitting here with Spot, so was she.

The two of them were shoulder by shoulder now, hand in hand; Spot's apple was nowhere in sight. Red wasn't sure when that had happened, though she suspected Spot might have moved closer when she was pouring out more apple cider for them both, and it felt so nice to have him so close that she didn't even mind when an older lady in her bonnet passed them by with a scandalized gasp and a muttering about how girls this century didn't know the meaning of being proper.

They were still sitting together like that when, somewhere in the distance, a howl erupted through the early afternoon air. Maybe it was a dog playing in the park, maybe not, but the howl sent shivers down her spine. Spot, feeling her tremble, pulled her even closer to him.

Red simply sighed again, this time in contentment.

The Beast was still out there somewhere. There was no doubt about that. But, with her guard dog faithfully at her side, she had nothing left to fear.

fin


End file.
